The Matchmaker
by images-in-words
Summary: (AU) Santana Lopez is one of the most successful professional matchmakers in New York City, yet she's never been lucky in love. Rachel Berry is a 21 year old musical theater student at the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts who's on the cusp of her first big break. When they meet, sparks fly - yet each is unsure, scarred by traumatic events in their pasts.
1. Chapter 1

**The Matchmaker ~** _a tale of Rachel and Santana ~_

 _chapter one_

It's something she's heard way too often from friends and family alike: _being so involved in the lives of others is just a way for you to avoid dealing with your own life._

And yes, Santana Lopez can admit that there maybe some truth to that - if only to herself - but damn it, she's good at what she does, she's proud of it, and she makes no apologies for it. Besides, _somebody's_ got to help the people in this city of millions who desperately want to find that one person who's right for them, that special being who completes their busy, harried, frazzled lives and brings them the elusive happiness that's so insanely hard to find.

It's something that's amazingly difficult to do, and Santana is better at it than anyone. She'd started out with both straight and gay clients, but over time, she's become more and more popular in the gay community as the one matchmaker in the city who consistently gets it right. It helps that she's a lesbian herself, of course, but it's more than that; she seems to have an uncanny kind of sixth sense for these things, a rare, unique combination of intelligence and instinct that rarely misses the mark. She can just _look_ at two people together and know whether or not they're really right for each other, and when she predicts how long their relationship will last, she's almost never wrong.

Except, of course, when it comes to her own sorry excuse for a love life. All work and no play makes for a lonely and frustrated Santana. Ah, irony. All those years spent in school, becoming an expert in psychology and human sexuality...you'd think it would be of some benefit in figuring out how to find someone to occupy the giant empty space in her life where a significant other should be, but no. The phrase _Physician, heal thyself_ comes to mind, but you know what? Fuck that. She's worked too hard and too long to allow herself to wallow in self-pity, to spend her precious free time on second-guessing herself, after all the good she's done for people in this crazy town.

Today has been a particularly long day, and she's bone-tired, more than ready to go home to her empty refrigerator and empty bed, scrounge up something to eat, then collapse into blissful slumber. (Maybe this time she'll even remember to undress first.) Artie, her loyal assistant, rolls up to her open door and knocks at the frame to announce his presence, as he always does. She smiles at his unfailing consistency; they both know she's heard the sound of his wheelchair on the carpeting well before he even gets there.

"Hey, boss," he says, smiling as he pushes his rectangular glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We made it to the end of another long week. Got any special plans for the weekend?"

Santana clicks "shut down" on the Apple menu and wearily turns from her flat-screen monitor to the bespectacled young man occupying the doorway, dressed in his usual adorkable way: bow-tie, crisp white dress shirt, colorful sweater vest. He's been her right hand man almost from the beginning, and his cheerful manner belies the highly disciplined way in which he runs the office like a well-oiled machine. She doesn't know what she would do without him.

"If you call sleeping, doing laundry and restocking my refrigerator 'special plans,' then yes, I have special plans," she replies with a chuckle. "How about you? Still seeing that girl you met at the anime film festival last month?"

Artie blushes, laughs nervously. He really is a sweet guy; she knows he's going to make some lucky woman very happy someday. It's funny how tongue-tied he gets whenever she asks him about his love life, as though he's still a shy teen at the high school dance with his back planted firmly against the wall, hoping that someone will notice him, yet completely terrified at the possibility.

"Um, yeah. She's cool. Things are going pretty well, actually. We're actually going up to Massachusetts to visit her parents tomorrow."

She perks up at this bit of news. "Really? And you waited until _now_ to tell me this? Artie, that's awesome! Quite a big step. I guess you two are getting serious?"

"Oh, I don't know about that." He suddenly gets very interested in examining the loafers on his unmoving feet, but Santana hears the excitement in his voice despite his best attempt to keep it low-key. "Maybe. She _is_ pretty amazing."

Santana gets up from her desk, crosses the carpeted floor to where he sits. She bends at the waist to press a kiss to his cheek. "And you were so worried you'd never find anybody. See? It's like I always say – _there's someone for everyone._ I'm really happy for you."

The smile he gives her stretches all the way across his face, the perfect picture of happiness. "Thanks, boss." The smile disappears, replaced by a slight frown. "But what about you? Where's _your_ someone?"

"Good question, Wheels," she answers, teasing him with the nickname he claims to hate, but which she knows he secretly loves. "That, as they say, is still to be determined. Now what do you say to a celebratory plate of wings and a few drinks, on me?"

"I say, you're on. Nuclear sauce this time? I'm feeling brave tonight."

"And you kiss your girl with that mouth? All right. It's your funeral."

With that, she flicks the light switch to the "off" position as he wheels himself out of her way. The room goes dark and she pulls the door closed behind her; it automatically locks with a soft _click_. She takes hold of the twin handles at the back of the chair to push him along in front of her, and in minutes, they're on the elevator, in the building's spacious lobby, then out the door and into the New York City evening.

 **RACHEL**

 _Just a small town girl...living in a lonely world...she took the midnight train going anywhere..._

She closes her eyes, thinking back as she always does to the time when she was that small town girl, channeling the emotions she'd felt in those days and pouring them into the song as it spills from her lips. There'd been times when it had indeed felt like a lonely world. Sometimes her dream of the Broadway stage had been her only companion, and she'd alternated between singing herself to sleep and crying herself to sleep more times than she cared to remember.

But this is her world now, and it's a world away from where she used to be. She'd gotten herself out of Nowhere, U.S.A. (also known as Lima, Ohio) by virtue of a combination of sheer will, unshakable belief in destiny, and more talent than could be fully contained by her five foot one body, and now she's here, pounding the hallowed pavement of New York City and treading the (for now) off-Broadway boards on her way to the stardom she's always known to be her birthright.

The song ends on a shouted word and a clenched fist held high above her head, and in place of the cheering, shouting audience she knows will one day be hers, there's the long, slow clap of three pairs of hands reverberating throughout the empty theater.

"That was great, Miss Berry," comes the voice of Producer #1 over the PA. Rachel squints into the light, trying to make out the details of his face. He's an older gentleman, late fifties, black hair going to gray, a genuinely admiring look in his eye. "Really great."

Producer #2 is a somewhat younger woman, maybe mid-forties, with red hair that falls in soft curls about her head and shoulders. It reminds Rachel of her high school guidance counselor. The woman looks down at a piece of paper on the clipboard she's holding, then up at Rachel.

"How old did you say you were again?" she asks.

"I'm twenty-one," responds Rachel, infusing her voice with all the confidence she can muster. "Just about to graduate from NYADA."

"The New York Academy of Dramatic Arts, eh? Impressive. Great school. Produced a lot of fine performers. I've hired a few of them." says Producer #3, his voice a low rumble. He's a big man, obviously well-fed, the oldest of the three; Rachel would put his age at around 70, maybe a little younger, but not much. He reaches into the front pocket of his immaculately tailored charcoal-gray suit jacket and pulls out a purple handkerchief to wipe away the sweat that's collected on his wide forehead, just above his bushy gray eyebrows.

"Yes, yes. Impressive," the woman echoes, looking up again from her clipboard with intensely green eyes. "It says here that you were in school productions of _West Side Story_ and _Cabaret_. Lead roles. Your professors and peers gave you excellent reviews for those performances. What would you say you'd bring to the role of Fanny Brice in this production that no one else could?"

"Well, my high school glee club teacher always said that I was like a new Barbra Streisand. 'Barbra for the new millennium,' he said. Of course, I demurred," Rachel replies. It's true. He really _had_ said that. It's one of her most cherished high school memories. "I told him, 'there's only ever going to be one Barbra.' And as much as I love and worship her, I'd rather be the _first_ Rachel Berry than the _second_ Barbra Streisand, honestly." She pauses, trying to gauge the trio's reaction to her words. Their faces are unreadable masks, so she plows ahead. "To answer your question more directly, I think I would bring more of a midwestern girl-next-door kind of quality to the role, as opposed to the expected New York bluster and brassiness."

"Yes...yes...I can see it," the older man says, and the tone of his voice tells Rachel that he really _is_ envisioning it. Or at least, she hopes so. "That was a very good answer, Miss Berry. You're young - _very_ young - but mature beyond your years."

The younger man pipes up. "It's risky, though." Rachel closes her eyes. She'd had a feeling he'd be the one to doubt her. "Casting a virtual unknown in a big revival like this? Will the audience go for it? Ticket buyers like to get the return on investment that a more well-known performer gives them."

"Yes, but they also like the excitement of seeing someone fresh and new in a classic role," the woman argued. "Someone with a different take, someone who can move the character in a new direction."

A small smile curls the corners of Rachel's mouth upward. She knows all about new directions; that had been the name of her high school's glee club. The group had won two national championships with her as their leader, and it was largely on the strength of those accomplishments that she'd gotten the full scholarship to NYADA that had brought her to this moment.

"Simmer down, you two," the older one barks, mildly irritated by the bickering. He finds it unseemly to have such discussions in front of an auditioning performer. "My apologies, Miss Berry. After all these years, I still haven't gotten the puppies house trained."

The woman coughs in embarrassment. Rachel decides she's quite beautiful. The younger man glares at her, miffed at being contradicted so forcefully, and then so thoroughly chastised by his mentor.

"Yes, well," the woman finally manages to stammer. "Thank you very much, Miss Berry. We'll let you know."

"I'm grateful for the opportunity. Thank you," Rachel says simply. She wants to say more, but she's learned to rein in her natural loquaciousness when necessary. It's one of the first lessons she'd had to learn when she came to the Big Apple. She gathers her bag from where it lies at her feet and exits the stage, not hurriedly, trying to project the sense that this is her stage, that she belongs on it, whether they choose her for the part or not.

In moments, she's on the sidewalk outside the theater, looking up at the currently blank marquee above the doors. It's only a matter of time before her name appears on it, she knows. She puts on her sunglasses, then pulls her cell phone out of her bag. She swipes to unlock it and taps the name on her contact list of the person she knows would kill her if she didn't let them know how the audition had gone as soon as it was over.

It's a glorious day, so she decides to walk the ten blocks or so to the subway stop instead of taking a cab from the theater. From there, she'll take the first of several trains back to her apartment, where her roommates Mercedes and Tina are presumably waiting for her with bated breath. As fellow NYADA students, they know all too well how important this audition is for Rachel, and honestly, she feels pretty good about her chances. _Who can resist the power of an expertly sung classic rock anthem?_ Smiling into the sun with her sunglasses on, she listens patiently to the ring of the phone on the other end, then bursts out laughing when she hears the half-shouted, half-panted greeting.

"What did they say what did they say _what did they say_?!"

"Hello to you too, Marley."

"Don't _hello_ me, Rachel. I'm your sister - and as you well know, you are required to give me any and all details before engaging in simple pleasantries. Now spill!"

Rachel giggles in delight. No one else can make her laugh like her adopted older sister. They've shared so much together, weathered so much sadness and difficulty, and yet Marley Rose is an ever-shining light in her life, illuminating even the darkest times with the infectious optimism that's become Rachel's own, for which she's become well-known around the NYADA campus.

"Honestly, I think it went very well. One of the producers didn't seem to like me very much - but the other two had only positive things to say, so I think I have a real shot at this. Oh, Marley, I'm so excited!"

"Rachel, that's great! I'm proud of you." Marley's voice is thick with emotion; Rachel can tell she's struggling not to cry. Her sister has never been able to hide anything from her. "Not that I had any doubt you'd totally knock 'em dead, of course. You were born to rule the stage. All you've ever needed is for someone to give you the chance to prove it."

"And what about you? How are things out in L.A? Everything all right with those new roommates of yours, Kitty and...what's her name again?"

"Unique," Marley laughs. "They're quite a handful, always sniping at each other, getting mad and then making up. Mostly I think Kitty's mad that Unique has better makeup skills than she does. It's kind of amazing, really."

"Mmm." What Marley says is true; Rachel's seen pictures. "And how goes the songwriting? You haven't played me anything new in a while."

"I'm working on a couple of new things, actually – in fact, one of them would be perfect for you to sing at your final showcase performance at school. It's called _This Time,_ and it's about our days in Glee Club. I played it for Mr. Schuester the other day, and he _cried,_ Rachel. He actually cried! Don't tell him I told you that, though."

"While I'm offended that you played a new song for _him_ before you played it for _me,_ I'm very excited to hear it! Will you be around later?"

"Well...I was _going_ to surprise you with the video of this afterwards, but since you asked..." Marley's voice is low and conspiratorial, as though secret agents might burst through the door and lead her away in handcuffs for possessing the information she's about to share. "We're doing a showcase of our own tonight down at the Night Light!"

" _WHAT?"_ Rachel shrieks, completely unmindful of the fact that she's stopped still in the middle of a busy New York City sidewalk, forcing all the other pedestrians to part around her like she's Moses in the Red Sea, or Quinn Fabray in the hallways of their old high school. "Oh, Marley, that's fantastic!"

"I know! Don't tell our dads, please, Rachel," Marley pleads. "I should have known that I couldn't surprise _you_ , but I really, really want to surprise _them,_ okay?"

"I don't know how you expect me to walk around the rest of the day keeping this news all bottled up, Marley," huffs Rachel as she resumes her walk, paying no heed to the dirty looks being shot her way. "But _fine -_ I won't tell them. Who _can_ I tell, then? Quinn? Sam? I _can_ tell Mercedes and Tina, right? They're my roommates, after all. They'll know something's up as soon as I come through the door."

"Yes, yes, you can tell anybody else you want – just...just _not_ Hiram and Leroy, okay? Swear it."

"Swear it? What are we, _twelve?_ Come on, Marley. I just said -"

"I _mean_ it, Rachel. I won't be able to perform if I think there's even the slightest, the tiniest possibility that they know what's happening. This could be really big for us – I can't screw it up. I can't let Kitty and Unique down. Plus, I'd never be able to forgive myself if I disappointed our dads like that."

"You could never disappoint them, Marley. Or me." Rachel's throat tightens. "Or...or your mom. We're all so, so proud of you. I know she would be too."

"I still miss her. I miss her _so much._ " She hears her sister sigh, and her heart breaks for her all over again. "All these years, and...it's funny. I can write songs about everyone else, but not her. Not for my own mom."

Rachel bites her lip softly. There's so much she wants to say to her sister, so many words of love and support and encouragement, but she's nearly at the subway stop and the traffic is _so loud_ and – she sighs. It's just not the time or place for that conversation. Not now. Not here. But soon. Maybe later tonight, after Marley has sung her songs with her weird but entertaining roommates to a packed house, earning the praise and applause her talent has always deserved.

So she just says, simply and earnestly, "You will, Marley. You will."

She hears Marley's breath hitch, can practically feel the tears tracking their way down her cheeks, and she knows that her words have been heard but not believed. After all, Rachel's been saying this for years, and yet Marley's inability to express her feelings about her mother in song has remained a constant source of pain for both of them.

"One day," Marley replies quietly, so quietly that Rachel can barely hear her above the dull roar of cars and buses and rapid footsteps on the pavement of New York City. This is what she always says. It's become a sort of mantra for them, a prayer that the wall behind which Marley's feelings about her mother have been barricaded for so long will finally begin to crack and crumble and fall away.

"One day. You'll see." She pauses to swallow down the lump of emotion that's threatening to steal the power of speech away from her. "Anyway, listen – I have to go now, but you call me as soon as you get home from the show, okay? And break a leg, as we say in the theater."

Marley laughs, and Rachel's heart swells in her chest at the sound. As long as her sister can laugh, there's hope. As long as she can laugh, she can keep the sadness at bay. As long as she can do that, she can find the strength to get through today, and tomorrow, and the next day.

"I will. And good luck to you too, even though I know you don't need it. This is your time, Rachel. I know it, you know it, and pretty soon the whole world is going to know it too."

Rachel smiles. Marley has always been her biggest cheerleader. "We shall see. In any event, I really do have to go now. Give my best to Kitty and Unique too, okay? I love you."

"I love you too. Talk to you later. Bye!"

The call ends, and moments later, Rachel's on the train, a host of different emotions swirling inside her. The more some things change, she muses, the more other things stay the same. She sends a fervent prayer to the universe that 'one day' will come sooner rather than later, as the rhythmic wheeze and rumble of the train somehow beats in time with her heart.

 **SANTANA**

Several hours, two plates of nuclear hot wings ("I can't feel my tongue!," Artie had exclaimed in delight) and three full pitchers of water later, Santana unlocks the door to her apartment, throws her keys on the kitchen counter, undresses on the way to her bedroom, and finally collapses bonelessly onto her new and wonderfully comfortable mattress in just her underwear. Dimly, in the back of her mind, she admonishes herself for leaving her clothes on the floor, but she's just too exhausted to care at this point. She'll pick everything up tomorrow. It's too late, she's too sleepy, and fuck it, that's what Saturday mornings are for anyway.

She tosses and turns all night, though, despite the comfort of the plush mattress and the soft sheets in which she's gotten herself tangled. Her sleep is always restless, her dreams always filled with the faces of the one woman she's ever truly loved, and the one who had tried so desperately to take that woman's place.

When she'd broken up with Dani, she'd taken great pains to explain that it wasn't because of anything the other woman had said or done; it was just because Brittany still had too much of a claim on her heart for her to truly give it to anyone else just yet. It had been an amicable, if tearful split, and in fact, the years since Britt had left the city for MIT and a life of academic study had been kind to both of them. Britt was at the forefront of her field - advanced mathematics and quantum computation – while Santana had become one of the most successful and sought after matchmakers in all of New York City. They had done quite well for themselves, and both knew that they probably wouldn't have achieved half of it had they stayed together. This inescapable fact hadn't made Santana's loneliness any easier to bear, however, and after a period of self-imposed retreat, she'd finally made the decision to put herself out there once more.

That was when she met Dani one fateful late night into early evening at the Spotlight Diner, a hot, hip eatery known for its singing wait staff, most of whom were young, aspiring actors and musicians. (Hence its slogan: "The only place in town where the talent sings for _your_ supper, not theirs.") She'd seen Santana occupying a booth by herself, thought she looked sad and lonely, and sat right there next to her, asking what a beautiful woman like her was doing watching a Sunday sunrise all alone in a diner. San, who normally would have verbally sliced and diced anyone who dared to invade her personal space like that, felt the cloud around her heart begin to dissipate at the waitress' boldness and quirky charm.

By the time they'd quietly sung a chorus of _Here Comes the Sun,_ she'd felt warmer and lighter than she'd been in a log time. From then on, Dani became a constant presence, helping to fill the aching void that Brittany had left, and for a time, things were good. Really good.

Dani really was a great girl: lively, vivacious, fun and talented, a bohemian dream who loved life and lived it to the fullest each and every day. Santana was still healing, but the whirlwind ride that was Dani provided a great distraction from the grief and sorrow she'd been feeling for so long over Brittany's absence from her life. They laughed a lot, sang a lot, and when they made love, Dani surprised her with the passionate ferocity she brought to their bed.

And yet, Santana felt she couldn't give herself completely to the feisty, short-haired girl who wrote songs and played guitar when she wasn't serving burgers and singing pop tunes at the diner. She just couldn't bring herself to be that vulnerable, that open, the way she'd been with Brittany, and the more she thought about it, questioning herself in the dark and quiet spaces of the night, the more she realized it was because she still wasn't entirely over the tall, blue-eyed blonde who had been her everything, once upon a time.

So when she had finally worked up the courage to end things with a variation of the old "it's not you, it's me" speech, seeking to land the blow as softly and gently as possible, she'd thought that Dani would understand, that they could move forward as friends.

Unfortunately, she'd thought wrong. Dani didn't take the break-up well at all, erupting in a white-hot fury so intense that Santana, who prided herself on not being afraid of anything, was actually frightened. Glasses were thrown, lamps and dishes were broken, neighbors awakened, and only a threat to call the cops had finally gotten Dani to leave Santana's apartment and return to her own small, neglected place – but not before rasping out the words that still send a chill up Santana's spine whenever she thinks back to that unhappy night.

" _I'll go – but you'll never be alone, Santana. No matter where you go, what you do, I'll be there. I'll never stop loving you. I'll never stop trying to be with you. One day you'll come to your senses, and you'll realize that no one else can ever love you the way I do, as much as I do – but until then, until that day, Santana, you will_ _ **never**_ _be happy. You get me?_ _**Never!**_ _I'll be waiting. And_ _I. Will. Be._ _Watching."_

And then Dani had stormed out of her apartment, the angry slamming of the door a complete contrast to the gentle way she'd entered Santana's life just a few months earlier. Santana was left to weep, to clean up the mess, and to wonder just what the hell was going to happen next...and whether Dani was right.

She didn't have to wait long for the chips to start falling. First it was the letters, written in Dani's loopy cursive scrawl, initially begging Santana to give their relationship another chance, then _demanding_ that they get back together, _or else._ Sometimes they would say that if they didn't get back together, Dani would die of a broken heart, while other times, she would make thinly veiled hints at the possibility of suicide, which both saddened and enraged Santana. It was incomprehensible to her that the girl would think so little of herself and her own life that she would even consider ending it over a relationship that hadn't even lasted a full year. Surely there had been things in her life that had given it meaning before they'd met...hadn't there? She wondered, afraid of what the possible answer to that question might be.

And then there were the phone calls, which came at all hours, at home, at work, on the cell phone. Constant, sometimes silent, sometimes filled with rage, other times tearful. Pleading, begging, cajoling, demanding, berating, and yes, threatening. Santana would change her numbers, multiple times, yet somehow Dani would find a way to track them down. She found out later on that someone in the office - a dopey guy who'd fallen for Dani's vague promises of sex, or company, or _something –_ had been giving her the new numbers every time Santana changed them. And then, after she'd fired him, he continued to get them from former co-workers. She'd had to fire four other people before the calls finally stopped.

It didn't stop the flowers and the gifts, the teddy bears, the shiny Mylar balloons saying "I Love You" and "I Miss You," and the sometimes bizarre singing telegrams until she'd called the various delivery persons and telegram singers' employers and let them know in no uncertain terms that she wanted none of it, and that if they insisted on continuing to show up at her home and / or her office, they would be hearing from her lawyer - one Sebastian Smythe, from the well-known firm of Smythe & Karofsky. There was no fiercer, or more feared, counselor at law in the entire city, she warned, and that was enough to get it all to stop, much to Santana's relief.

Later, Sebastian had called to let her know he'd followed up to make sure that everyone understood she wasn't bluffing. They'd met and become friends in college, and his work on behalf of her business had been instrumental in helping it to get off the ground and become successful. His loyalty, and his ability to effortlessly charm anyone and everyone with his handsome looks and beguiling smile, has been invaluable. She reminds herself, thinking about it now, that she still owes him the dinner she'd promised at the time.

After that, she would go on awkward, tentative dates, which under normal circumstances would have been difficult enough, but since Dani knew all of her favorite places to go and things to do, it was easy enough for her to crash those dates and easily ruin them with a glare or a casually placed remark or cruel insult. It was infuriating, but as long Dani wasn't doing anything more than that, not being threatening or violent, Santana found it all but impossible to stop her without making threats of her own. She wasn't afraid of a fight, having been in her share back in her high school days, but she was loathe to do anything that might draw some sympathy for Dani. And besides, going to jail for assault, however justified, wasn't going to do her or her clients any good.

So a weary, angry Santana did the only thing she felt she could do: she stopped going on dates. As much as it burned her to admit defeat, she was tired of trying to circumvent Dani's strategy of inflicting embarrassment and humiliation upon her dates. And maybe, really, her heart wasn't in it anyway, and it wasn't it kind of unfair to keep going out with these women when she was so tense and distracted with worry over whatever Dani might do next?

Now, as she wakes up slowly with the late Saturday morning sunlight streaming through the blinds and her cat meowing softly to be fed, Santana feels the familiar glum resignation that this is how her life is going to be. She's going to keep helping others with their love lives while never having one of her own. They'll go places and do things and eventually they'll get married, all happy, smiling, laughing, while she's forever the guest at the wedding, sad and bored, nursing her fourth glass of champagne and fending off the clumsy advances of male guests from out of town who don't know or care who she is; they just know she's hot and that they'd very much like to know what she's got going on beneath that dress she's wearing.

She supposes it's a price she can pay for getting to make a pretty nice living doing something she really likes and enjoys doing. It's not something most people can say, after all. And yet...

And yet, she can't keep the feeling that she needs and wants more at bay. That she _deserves_ more. That all her hard work should translate into something beyond a beautiful apartment, a cat she adores, and an absolutely ridiculous number of Facebook friends and Twitter followers. As much as she likes her life – the detour with Dani aside – she can't help but wonder with a plaintive sigh: this just _can't_ be all there is...can it?

She groans, pressing a hand to her back, as she rises from her bed to gather yesterday's clothes from the floor, throws them in the hamper on the way to the bathroom. Shortly after that, she feeds the cat, earning a meow of approval from the hungry feline, and begins to prepare her own morning meal. Humming the tune to _Valerie,_ an old song she still loves, she sits down at the kitchen table with her bowl of cereal to stare out at the city through her living room windows, completely unaware of the fact that everything is very much about to change.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Matchmaker** ~ _a tale of Rachel and Santana_

 _chapter two_

 **RACHEL**

Her phone beeps with a new e-mail alert, and Rachel smiles softly at the sound. She knows without looking who's sent it. Quinn Fabray's post high school path had landed her not in New York, but in Connecticut. New Haven, to be precise. She's been majoring in literature at Yale, defying her father's edict to join the pre-law or pre-med track, and not a week has gone by in the last four years since they've been in college that she hasn't gotten at least one e-mail or text or phone call from her best friend. Rachel regrets that there hasn't been more opportunity for her to use the metro pass tickets Quinn gives her at the beginning of every semester, though she does make a point of visiting the beautiful Ivy League campus whenever her schedule allows. Their friendship has been through a lot of ups and downs since its chaotic beginnings back in high school; some bad, a lot more good, but both girls know that they would never have gotten through any of it without each other.

Quinn had been the queen bee of William McKinley High School back home in Lima, Ohio, but she's changed a great deal in the time they've been friends. When they'd first met, Quinn was a classic blonde beauty with movie-star looks, the stereotypically popular head cheerleader with the star quarterback boyfriend. Rachel had been both jealous of and intimidated by those looks, and the ruthless way in which Quinn used them to rule the school from the top of the social pyramid. Many of the lesser beings in school had felt the sting of Quinn's acid-tipped verbal lashings when they made the mistake of getting in her way, and Rachel lived in mortal fear of somehow incurring her wrath when she sauntered down the hallway with a small army of worshipful cheerleaders and football players following behind her, eager and ready to do her bidding at the slightest offense, real or imagined.

The New Directions, McKinley's glee club and home to some of its most woeful social outcasts, was her sanctuary from the slings and arrows of the school's suffocating caste system. It was the one place where she and the other members of the club felt safe from the bullying, the name-calling and the bizarre obsession some of the more cruel of the popular kids had with throwing frozen drinks in the so-called losers' faces. This humiliating ritual was called "slushying," and it was so pervasive and ubiquitous that Rachel had taken to bringing two extra sets of clothes to school every day because for some reason, they really got a kick out of subjecting her to it with terrifying regularity.

It was the first – and only – time that Quinn herself had thrown a slushy in her face, ironically, that had brought Rachel and Marley together, before they'd become sisters. There were precious few places besides the choir room where Rachel could hide from her frozen drink-wielding tormentors, where there was one adult who refused to turn a blind eye to the abuse and absolutely would not put up with it. This was the kitchen area of the school's cafeteria, the domain of the kind, gentle woman who'd been a mother figure to Rachel before she ever met her own biological mom: Marley's sweet Mama Rose.

That day, she'd been chased through the hallway by yet another nameless, faceless jock with a taste for depravity and a love of making "losers" cry before stopping short right in front of Quinn Fabray. The head cheerleader wore her uniform like a suit of armor; she was untouchable, unassailable, completely in control of everyone and everything around her. Yet Rachel could swear she saw something like sadness in the girl's eyes before they hardened, narrowing in disapproval at Rachel's temerity in _almost_ touching her.

"Berry," she said. Her voice was a cold Arctic breeze. It sent a chill through Rachel's entire body. " _Why_ do you persist in making this so difficult? Just accept that this is the way things are. The way things have to be. Stop trying to reinvent the wheel. The sooner you and the rest of your Glee Club losers accept your place, the better it will be for all of us."

"No, Quinn," Rachel replied defiantly. Somewhere inside, she surprised even herself with those words. No one ever said _no_ to Quinn Fabray. No one. "I won't accept this – this – this legalized torture, this ritual cruelty that masquerades as order in these halls. You think being able to get away with everything makes you special, but you're _wrong."_

At that, Quinn's devastatingly raised eyebrow, the one everyone in school feared, went up higher than Rachel had ever seen it before. Surrounded by the head cheerleader's beefy sycophants, the barely five foot tall Rachel felt smaller than ever. She knew she'd overstepped the well-drawn boundaries that kept everybody in their place at McKinley, but she couldn't find it within herself to care at this point. Damn it, _someone_ had to say it sometime – so why not her?

"Oh? I'm wrong, am I? Like _you_ would know anything about being special? Okay, I'll bite. If being popular and powerful doesn't make you special, what does?"

Rachel felt her insides liquefying under Quinn's laser-like gaze, but she'd gone too far to turn back now.

"Being part of something special makes you special, Quinn. Not wearing a uniform, or getting free perks, or having the answers to every test e-mailed to you in advance. You Cheerios are talented, I'll give you that, but it's well known that the squad's success is as much a result of Coach Sylvester's insane schemes and plots against your competitors as it is the ridiculous things she makes you do in practice. No, I'd say that being part of a group that emphasizes real friendship and welcomes you for you are, and not who you pretend to be, that gives you the freedom to express yourself the way you want – _that_ is way more special than being part of a monolithic hive-mind like the Cheerios."

"We're _winners,_ you little idiot," Quinn scoffed. "What has your merry band of singing misfits ever won? What have _you_ done to bring attention, praise and acclaim to this school? Without the Cheerios, this place would be falling apart around you. Anarchy would reign. No one would have any idea where they stood, who they even _are_ at this school."

"Wrong again. I _know_ who I am. So do the rest of us in the New Directions. But you know what? I don't think you do. You're the prettiest girl I've ever met, Quinn, but you're a lot more than that - and you don't even realize it. That's why I see the sadness in your eyes. You think this is all you are, that - that _this_ is all there is, but it's not. There's a whole world beyond high school, and in three years, _none of it is going to mean_ _ **anything**_ – and I think that scares you. No, I _know_ it does. I can see the fear, the terror in your face, the truth behind the mocking, disdainful sneer you always wear. You're not the Head Bitch in Charge you say you are. The fact is, you're just a scared little girl who needs protection just to get through the day. Honestly, I feel a little sorry for you, because if you don't change, you are _never_ getting out of this town. Not because you don't _want_ to. Because, deep down, you don't think you _deserve_ to."

They'd locked eyes then, and Rachel saw the truth of what she'd said reflected in the stricken expression on the normally perfectly poised ice queen's face. Quinn looked as though she'd just been slapped, hazel green eyes wide with shock, full lips parted and trembling. Then, without another word, she ripped a large slushy cup right out of a football player's meaty hand, a boy twice her size, and Rachel saw him draw back in fear just before a deluge of wet and cold blasted her in the face, burning her eyes, drenching her hair and clothing, leaving her blinded and utterly breathless.

"You don't know the first thing about me," Quinn whispered as she walked past Rachel, her minions following, all laughing and snickering. "You _don't_."

It sounded less like a statement than a plea - a desperate, futile denial - to Rachel's freezing cold ears, but all she could do was shiver in reply.

"HEY! Get away from her!" A new voice, different, rang out down the length of the hallway, over the mocking laughter. One she'd never heard before. Unfamiliar.

"Don't worry, New Girl," she heard Quinn say, the usual cool self-assurance back in that smooth, slightly breathy voice. "We're done with her. She's all yours."

"Oh my God, look at you," the owner of the unfamiliar voice said from somewhere above Rachel's head. Whoever this girl was, she was tall. "You're shivering! Let...let me take you to my mom. She'll know what to do."

"Need...need my...s-spare...clothes...f-from...my...locker." The words were low, forced out through clenched, chattering teeth, and Rachel could only hope that her benefactor was able to hear and understand them.

Fortunately, she was. The girl's eyes grew wide, then narrowed with determination. If her vision weren't blurred by frozen, colored corn syrup, Rachel might have found her expression adorable – but she was too freaking cold at that moment to consider it. "Right. Your locker. Okay. Show me where it is."

Rachel's hand slipped into the other girl's with an ease that was as startling as it was pleasant. Through her sticky, burning eyes, she was barely able to make out some details of her rescuer's appearance: as she'd thought, the girl was tall, slender, with long, beautiful brown hair and a red beret on top of her head, like the cherry on a sundae. She was frowning in anger, her pretty face clenched tight, and Rachel was touched by the girl's clear concern for her. No one at school outside of the Glee Club had ever shown her that kind of caring before.

After a walk down the hallway that seemed longer than it actually was, Rachel stopped abruptly and said, "Here. M-my l-locker. The c-com-combination is -"

"No. Don't say it. You never know who might be listening. Just – just guide my fingers. OK?"

Somehow, Rachel managed a smile despite the fact that it felt as though her facial muscles had been paralyzed. "Oh – okay." Her small fingers rested lightly on the other girl's longer ones, and after a few shaky moments, the lock gave way and the taller girl swung the locker door open.

"All right!" the girl exclaimed. "We got it open. Good job." She peered into the locker, not noticing the various pictures taped to the inside of the door, just about all of which were of the various members of the Glee Club (except the one of her dads at the lower right-hand corner). "Now – what am I looking for here?"

"There. The b-bag. All t-the way in the b-back."

"I see it." The girl reached a long arm into the locker to grab the bag. "Got it! Okay, do you need anything else, or can I get you to my mom now?"

"N-nothing else. Th-thank you."

The smile the girl gave her in lieu of a _you're welcome_ was as warm and pleasant as a sunny spring morning. Rachel suddenly felt much less cold, even with the chips of colored ice snaking her way down the inside of her blouse, all along the curve of her lower back, and into her unmentionables.

When they got to Mama Rose's kitchen sanctuary, they found her hard at work, pulling out a large pan of round, fluffy rolls from the other, replacing it with another, then stirring a giant pot of soup while chopping various vegetables at the same time. She moved with practiced ease from one task to another, humming tunelessly to herself, attention focused on the array of utensils and foodstuffs spread out on the massive prep table before her, until the sound of her daughter's voice came to her from just outside the doorway.

"Look, I don't _care_ about class right now, or what Principal Figgins will have to say about it!" Marley was shouting at someone outside, probably one of the cafeteria staff. "This girl needs _help_ , and I am _going_ to help her whether you like it or not!"

"Marls?" her mother called. "What's the matter? What's going on?"

Her daughter burst into the room, dragging another girl who looked more like a half-drowned, brightly-colored cat behind her. "Mom! I'm sorry, I know I should be in class right now, but I saw it happen and I just _couldn't_ let it go, not _again_ -"

"Hush. It's all right, sweetheart, it's all right," Mama Rose said, trying to soothe her daughter's obviously frazzled nerves. "You did the right thing. Bring your friend over here so's I can get a look at her. I'd come over there, but you know I can't move around too well these days."

Rachel stumbled over her own feet, feeling the slushy squish uncomfortably inside her shoes, to present herself to the large woman seated on a stool behind the massive prep table. The woman's smile was soft and kind, her eyes taking in Rachel's sorry state with compassion.

"What's your name, sweetie?" she asked gently. "Marley, can you stir that for me while I look at your friend here?"

Marley nodded, moving over to the large pot, knowing that this was her mother's way of trying to keep the other girl's attention from straying, knowing also that she didn't want the poor thing to feel as though Marley was staring at her. She lowered her eyes and began to stir the steaming concoction while her mom began to assess the damage.

"It's okay, girl. I'm not going to hurt you. My daughter probably should have taken you to the nurse's office, not here, but it's just instinct, is all. No harm done. Now, what's your name?"

"R-Rachel, ma'am. Rachel B-Berry."

The woman's eyes widened in her round face, her eyebrows reaching all the way to the elastic part of the hair net she wore. "The girl from the glee club! My Marley talks about you all the time. Says she hears you singing in the choir room and the auditorium, just like an angel." Rachel smiled at this through the still-cold goo dripping down her face. "Honey, could you get me a wet towel? There's a girl."

Marley quickly did as she was asked, not wanting to intrude on her mother's ministrations.

"Marley sings too," the woman continued, wiping off Rachel's face and neck in a brisk, yet gentle manner, "but she's too shy to do it in front of anyone but me. I always tell her she's got a beautiful voice, n' she should share it with the world. It's a gift, I say, and a person should never let a gift like that go to waste."

"Mom!" came the expected protest, drawing an affectionate chuckle from her mother. "I – I'm not that good. Not – not like Rachel. She's amazing."

"And _you_ are too, honey. You just have to believe in yourself, like I do." Mama Rose _tsk tsk-ed._ "We're going to have to get you out of these wet clothes, before you catch your death of cold." She turned her large frame in her seat to face her daughter. "Marley, why don't you go to the girls' room with your friend here n' help her change? I'll call the nurse and tell her to sign you both out of classes for the rest of the day. Damned slushies!" Her face reddened with anger. "Why on earth Figgins allowed that machine to be put in the cafeteria, I will _never_ understand. Go on now, both of you, then come back here. Rachel, sweetheart – you want me to call your parents to come get you?"

"No, ma'am. They're both very busy at work. I wouldn't want to trouble them. This happens all the time, unfortunately – if I called them every time, they'd probably get fired."

Mama Rose blinked, struck by the girl's poise, even standing there covered in slushy practically from head to toe. _My Marley could learn a thing or two from this one,_ she thought.

"Come on, Rachel. Let's go," said Marley, slipping her larger. warmer hand around Rachel's small, cold one. Rachel smiled up at her in thanks, and as they left the kitchen, they heard Mama Rose speaking with the nurse, as she'd promised.

Rachel made a mental note to bake some sugar-free "thank you" cookies for her over the weekend.

* * *

The glee club star leaned back in the chair that someone had put in the girls' room for just this type of situation and sighed at the feeling of Marley's fingers working the sticky slushy mixture out of her hair. Her scalp tingled with pleasure. The girl's hands were sure and her fingers were strong, and as Rachel looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, she realized that Marley was quite beautiful. Maybe not goddess-like, like Quinn, but extremely attracted in a wholesome, corn-fed sort of way. The girl hadn't turned away when Rachel had begun to disrobe, though her cheeks pinked cutely, and Rachel found herself strangely pleased when the girl showed no indication that she found her body gross or unattractive, as so many of her peers had claimed. Marley was actually quite helpful, taking the ruined clothing and discreetly placing it in the trash, handing her the fresh, unsullied clothes from her emergency slushy kit bag: socks, underwear, blouse, skirt, cheap tennis shoes.

She'd hardly said two words, though, and that bothered Rachel for some reason. She wanted to draw Marley out, to learn more about the girl who'd come to her rescue when she really needed it. Who was Marley Rose, and why was she so quiet?

"You're new here, aren't you?" she asked, the question sounding more like a statement over the hiss of hot water coming from the faucet. Steam fogged up the mirror above the sink.

"Yeah. My mom and I just moved here not too long ago. We used to do that a lot. Moving, I mean. My dad, his job was always transferring him somewhere, so we never stayed too long in one place when I was little. Then...then he left us, and -"

"He _died?_ " Rachel gasped.

"No. He _left_." Marley's voice was somber, matter-of-fact, like the words didn't really mean anything anymore, she'd said them so many times. "He said he didn't love my mom anymore, filed for divorce, packed his bags and then he was gone."

Rachel frowned. Marley's voice was neutral, but she saw the hurt in the girl's eyes. "That's terrible. I'm so sorry."

"Thanks. It's been hard sometimes, but it made my mom and I really close. Like, it's been the two of us against the world for most of my life. I can't even remember what he was like, really."

"I have two dads," Rachel blurted. "One of the most prominent gay couples in town. My Dad is a lawyer, and my Daddy is a doctor. If you or your mom ever need legal or medical help, don't hesitate to call."

Marley looked at Rachel with an amused, puzzled expression. Never in her life had she ever met someone her age who talked more like an adult.

"That's not a problem, is it?" Rachel asked, failing to keep the worry out of her voice.

"I'm sorry?"

"That my dads are gay. That's not a problem, is it? Because it would be a real shame if that were the case. I don't have many friends – well, none, really, outside of the glee club – and I was beginning to feel that you and I could be friends."

Marley was taken aback at this, seeing the worry in Rachel's face, hearing the passion, and the sadness, in her voice. She wondered if the girl had ever been rejected for that reason before; the thought of it actually made her wince.

"No – I mean, no, it's not a problem. Why would it be? Love is love, right? It sounds kind of nice, actually, having two dads. I barely had one, really."

Rachel smiled, more widely this time. "Your mom is amazing. I always pack my own lunches because of my very specific dietary requirements, but I've heard from those who choose to eat the cafeteria fare that it's improved greatly since she became the head of meal services."

"Thanks. She's always loved to cook, so when we came here, she decided the best thing she could do was to cook for the kids. She really loves her job, even though it's pretty hard for her sometimes, being big and all," Marley replied. Her lovely blue eyes held Rachel's attention as she spoke, and the words sort of melted away. The beginning of something strange and wonderful stirred in Rachel's chest, like a flower slowly blooming.

"You should join the Glee Club."

"Wait, what? Join the Glee Club? Oh!" Marley stammered. "And _sing_ – in front of _you_? I don't – I mean, I've watched you guys perform, you're all so amazing, and I – I'm _not._ " She frowned, hanging her head. "I'm just a girl who thinks she can write songs and sings them in her room."

"First of all, I think you're selling yourself short. Second, the Glee Club is always looking for new members. And third, we could use a songwriter in the group, as our upcoming competition has a requirement for original music."

Marley felt her resistance waver. A chance for other people to hear her songs, to finally know whether they were as good as she hoped they might be? To show all the emotions she'd poured into those songs over the course of many nights and weekends spent alone while her mother had worked at second and third jobs to keep them sheltered, clothed and fed? An opportunity to prove to herself and everyone else that she wasn't just a silly girl who was hoarding her dreams away, saving them for...for _what,_ exactly?

What would she give for that? Could she do it? Could she really sing in front of a bunch of other kids she didn't know, let alone an audience of strangers? She knew what the Glee Club was, what they did; she'd watched videos of their competitions on YouTube, marveling at the power and passion of their performances, secretly wishing she could be there too, yet afraid that she wasn't good enough - would _never_ be good enough - to stand on a stage alongside someone as talented as Rachel Berry (and the rest of the New Directions).

Rachel looked at her intently. Marley felt the weight of her stare, those big brown eyes seeming almost to be looking right into her heart – not judging, but taking her measure, trying to see what she was really made of.

There was only one way to find out. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and her response rushed out of her in a great exhalation of excitement and relief. Laughter and apprehension mingled in her voice.

"Okay. I'll do it."

"You – you _will?"_ Rachel asked, as though she didn't quite believe what she'd just heard. Then she launched herself at the taller girl to wrap her in a happy embrace. Her trademark infectious laugh echoed off the tiled walls, vibrated through Marley's body as she returned the hug. "Oh my goodness, Marley! This is fantastic! You _won't_ regret it, I swear."

Still laughing, Rachel took Marley's hand once again. "The Glee Club doesn't meet on Wednesdays, which is perfect, because I need to get you to my house right away," she said excitedly. "My room was designed with perfect acoustics in mind, so I'll be able to evaluate your voice, learn its strengths and figure out how to improve on any weaknesses. Oh, and we have to find you the perfect audition song!"

They walked out of the girls' room. Marley's head spun as Rachel went on about everything they needed to do. "Audition?" she asked, biting her lip, her fear and uncertainty welling up within her once again.

Rachel looked up at her. "Don't worry. It's just a formality," she said, seeking to allay the concern that showed in the other girl's face. "Everyone who's ever auditioned to join the Glee Club has gotten in. Think of it as introducing yourself with a song. That's why we need to find just the perfect one for you. Now come on!"

After getting Mama Rose's enthusiastic permission for Marley to go over to Rachel's house, the two girls left the school having been assured that the nurse had signed them out of classes for the rest of the day. Rachel was excited for what she was sure would be a resounding success the following afternoon, while Marley wondered just what she'd gotten herself into.

It was a great leap of faith for each girl, one they had no way of knowing would be the first step onto a life-changing path for both of them.

* * *

Rachel shakes her head, clearing away the memory to focus on the here and now. Quinn had been a very different person then - before her pregnancy and subsequent rejection by the Cheerios and their head coach had driven her into the arms of the Glee Club - and so had Rachel. So had Marley, for that matter. Their lives had all become inextricably linked together at that point, on that one fateful day, even though none of them could have realized it at the time.

She taps the e-mail icon on her phone to read Quinn's message, and her smile grows even wider. A giddy laugh escapes her lips, and her body vibrates with happiness.

 _Hi Rachel -_

 _I hope you're not completely losing your mind over that big audition – I know and you know and the entire universe knows you've got this, so don't even worry about it. That's not even why I'm writing this e-mail, actually. I hope you're sitting down, because if you aren't, you're probably going to hurt yourself jumping up and down with excitement, and we can't risk you spraining an ankle or something. Here's the big news: keep your calendar as open as possible two weeks from now, because I've somehow managed to get ahead enough in my school work to safely be able to plan a visit to you in the great Big Apple! I know, I know, it's been way too long – but now we can finally rectify that egregious error (a term I learned from you back in high school, when you were describing one of Mr. Schue's competition plans) at long last. Get your planner out (if you don't have it out already) and start thinking of things you want to do._

 _So that's the news from here. Gotta go – the last of my term papers isn't going to write itself, you know! Please say 'hello' and give my best to Mercedes and Tina. Love you all!_

 _\- Quinn_

Rachel bounds up from her bed, filled with renewed energy. Life is good – her audition had gone well, her sister has a big show tonight, and now her best friend would soon be coming to visit. Things could not possibly get any better.

 **SANTANA**

Laundry is not one of Santana's favorite things to do. Actually, it's one of her least favorite things to do, right up there with vacuuming and dusting. It's not that she doesn't have an appreciation for cleanliness – it's just that her hands weren't made for such tasks. Brittany, on the other hand, had loved the minutiae of domestic life, and she was very good at it – well, as long as Santana overlooked her habit of putting things away in the wrong places. She had even become a good cook, despite once claiming that she found recipes confusing. Fluffing, folding, moving, arranging – all those were the tall blonde's forte. Santana had always kept out of her way when Brittany was devoting herself to maintaining their shared domicile, watching with loving admiration as she danced around the apartment doing everything as only she could, in equal measures silly and graceful.

Santana misses those days. Now cooking, cleaning and doing laundry are a slog instead of a celebration; they only serve to remind her of what she doesn't have, and fears she might never have again. Sitting here in the laundromat, she absently watches her clothes spin and spin, feeling vaguely like her life going in that same circular cycle. She hates this feeling of gloom; she wishes something would come along to change it, but she knows what she would tell a client who expressed a similar feeling – _don't_ _ **wait**_ _for things to happen._ _ **Make**_ _them happen._

Easy to put on a bumper sticker or a business card. Much less easy to put into action.

The little bell above the front door rings, signaling the arrival of a new customer. It's still pretty early on this Saturday morning, so the place is fairly empty. This enables Santana to hear the clatter of the new customer's shoes on the tiled floor, and the accompanying small _oof!_ She looks up at the sound to see a short brunette woman stumbling and struggling with a laundry bag that's very nearly as big as she is. No one else makes a move to help her. Sighing, Santana stands and walks over to the small woman, whose face is partially hidden by the giant bag.

"Need some help?"

A large, round, chocolate-hued eye peers out from behind dark brown bangs and the bag that's perched precariously in her arms, widens at the sound of Santana's voice. Santana finds it impossible to stifle the impulse to laugh at the reaction, but somehow she manages to minimize it to a soft chuckle, rather than the full-on belly laugh she'd normally let out.

She takes the bag from the petite brunette, grunting at the weight of it, and rests it on the floor between them. The other woman's face looks up at her with an expression of gratitude so sincere and genuine that Santana's chest feels herself flush with warmth. She's lovely, but not in the conventionally beautiful sort of way: those large, dark eyes are complimented by a slightly too-large nose and a set of full, pillowy lips, all framed by a soft fall of silky brown hair. Her petite frame heaves with relief at no longer supporting the weight of the heavy bag, and Santana is suddenly impressed, realizing that the woman is deceptively strong despite her diminutive size.

"Thank you," the woman says, standing upright and flashing a dazzlingly white smile. She sticks her hand straight out for Santana to shake. "I'm Rachel Berry, student and future Broadway star."

Santana chuckles again at the woman's forthright, earnest manner. She takes the offered hand and gives it a gentle shake.

"Santana Lopez, matchmaker and hater of laundry. Nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," Rachel chirps brightly. "I don't usually fumble around like this." She frowns in displeasure at the oversized laundry bag. "But my less-than-diligent roommates suddenly realized that they were in dire need of getting some of their clothes washed, after completely ignoring the post-it notes I posted on their doors the last two weeks, so the bag was extra heavy," she fumes. "I swear, sometimes I think they're taking advantage of my natural kindness."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case," Santana replies dryly.

"You're not making fun of me, are you?" Rachel's eyes narrow, and her face scrunches up adorably in displeasure. She straightens her sunny yellow blouse, smooths down her short black skirt in a self-conscious sort of way, looking around as though she's afraid of someone overhearing their exchange and thinking badly of her.

 _Wait, what? Did I just think this girl is adorable? Well, hell. I guess she is, kinda. In a Japanese businessman's strange fantasy sort of way._

Santana hasn't been this immediately attracted to anybody since Dani, but she can't deny that this girl has her intrigued. She decides to push further, find out more about her, see if there's more to her than exotic good looks, a cheerful disposition and – not that she's looking or anything – a pair of rather nicely shaped legs.

"No, no, not at all." She holds her hands up in a mollifying gesture of surrender, then points down the long aisle to where her laundry is still spinning away. "I'm over there. Come on, let me help you with this."

Rachel beams up at Santana (who's really only two or three inches taller), indicating that if she had been offended before, she's not anymore. Apparently she's the forgiving type, which is good, Santana notes with a strange sense of relief. Being a matchmaker, a position that calls for sensitivity and compassion, hasn't entirely curbed Santana's tendency to unleash kind of an acid tongue sometimes. Which is why, if she's honest with herself, she has to take the blame for several of her past break-ups, pre-Brittany.

They carry the bag between them, sharing the weight, letting it drop when they get to the machine next to the one Santana's using.

"Thanks again," Rachel says as she opens the door to the washing machine and begins to reach into the bag for items to toss into its deep, round maw. "Are you in the habit of rescuing damsels in distress when you come across one in the laundromat, or am I the first?"

"You're the first," Santana answers with a flirtatious smirk. "Although now I wish I'd thought of it sooner. I've seen some pretty hot women in here."

"Oh, really? And yet I'm the first woman you've approached. I suppose I should be...honored." Rachel's voice drops down to a low, seductive purr, and Santana's throat suddenly goes dry. Apparently this innocent-looking little would-be diva can give as good as she gets in the flirtation department. Another plus.

She's not usually thrown by anything - especially not by women she's just met - but Rachel Berry has definitely thrown her, and that just ratchets up her curiosity even higher.

"Er – oh, yeah. _Definitely._ You should definitely feel honored. For sure," she replies, mentally kicking herself in the ass for such a lame reply. What has happened to her game?

It doesn't help that her eyes go wide with surprise when she just happens to catch sight of the lacy red thing Rachel throws into the machine, and the shorter woman catches her staring. The knowing smile she sends, and the soft, throaty chuckle that accompanies it, makes her entire body heat up with a pleasant warmth that radiates out from her lower abdomen and spreads all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, and even the ends of her hair.

Suddenly desperate to distract herself from that sudden wave of internal heat, she decides to take another conversational tack. "So, um, you said you're a student, Rachel? Where do you go to school?"

"I am currently in my last semester at NYADA, which stands for the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts." Rachel's face lights up as she describes the institution which had become her home away from home these last four years, shaping her both as a performer and as a person in that time. "It's very prestigious in the performing arts world, but not as well known outside of that world as, say, Juilliard or the Yale School of Drama. More insular, because it's even more selective. Only a mere twenty to thirty students are accepted into the school every year, and of those, maybe five to seven get full scholarships. I am proud and honored to say that I received one of those scholarships prior to my graduation from high school."

"Wow! Color me impressed," Santana says. The city is full of aspiring actors, dancers and musicians. Brittany had hoped to become a dancer before the call of academia had lured her back to MIT. "So, you're an actress, I take it?"

"I'm majoring in musical theater, with an emphasis on vocal performance, which basically means that I'm more of a singer who acts than an actress who sings." She laughs that musical laugh again, and Santana decides she can never hear enough of it. "I dance as well, having been trained in all three disciplines since I was old enough to stand on two feet, but my voice is my strongest asset by far."

"I would love to hear you sing sometime. My ex...she was a singer too. Folkie type, you know – tie-dye shirt, acoustic guitar, flower tattoo on her arm."

The smile Rachel gives her is so bright, it's positively blinding. "Well, it just so happens that I have a spring showcase performance coming up soon. It's open to the public, if you'd be interested in attending." The petite singer throws the last item from her now-empty laundry bag into the washer, and with her tongue cutely poking out between her lips, proceeds to rummage around in her purse for the coins she needs to start the machine. "Ah- _ha!"_ she exclaims, pulling out not only the coins, but a pen, and a small notebook.

She gestures to Santana's bottle of detergent, ducking her head. "I'm sorry, but - may I? This is so embarrassing – I _never_ forget things like that."

"Oh, no problem." Santana hands her the bottle, and as Rachel opens it, she continues on, enjoying the light conversation. "It's a brand new bottle, so go ahead – knock yourself out. Honestly, I'm not all that great with laundry myself. I make my living by straightening out people's love lives, but my own life is kind of messy these days."

"Yes, you mentioned earlier – you're a matchmaker, you said, right?" Rachel pours in the detergent, feeds the coins to the machine, and sits down again as it rumbles to life. "What a fascinating and rewarding profession that must be, helping people to find love. I'll bet you get invited to a lot of weddings."

"More than I'd like, actually," laughs Santana. "My friend Kurt is usually my date. We always end up crying about how we're going to end up alone together, with only our cats and fashion magazines to keep us company. I...get a little emotional when I'm drunk, which is why I generally avoid alcohol - except at weddings, for some reason. Kurt's really good at keeping me from making too much of a scene."

"We all need friends like that. Someone to speak to our better selves," Rachel muses. "My roommates do that for me." She pulls out her phone, and after a few taps and scrolls, offers it to Santana, who notes how small, yet elegant Rachel's hands and fingers are as she takes it.

She peers at the picture on the screen. It's Rachel seated at a restaurant table, flanked by two smiling women who look to be about the same age as her – one a pretty Asian, the other an equally pretty, slightly heavy-set African-American. The Asian girl has her hair down, dark and lustrous, while on the other side of Rachel, the African-American has her hair up in a bun. They all look happier than any three people have any right to be in the middle of what's obviously a mid-priced chain kind of place, with all kinds of pictures and knick-knacks adorning the wall behind them.

"These your roommates? They look nice," Santana comments. "Very wholesome."

Rachel beams. "They're the best roommates anyone could ever have," she gushes. "Tina Cohen-Chang and Mercedes Jones. When I first came to NYADA, I wasn't sure how I would be received. I was...a little sheltered, not all that sure of myself I guess you could say, and my personality could be a little abrasive at times. I cultivated a sort of bossy, overly confident persona in a vain attempt to hide how scared I was as a small town girl newly arrived in a big city. I'm sure I drove them a little crazy at first, but somehow they found a way to put up with me, and now we're all great friends. They're singers and performers as well. Very talented."

Rachel pauses, gazes at Santana with a look the taller woman can't quite define. It doesn't make her nervous or uncomfortable, though; it's like Rachel is searching for something, somehow seeing inside her. Santana has the strange feeling that she's being tested, and even more strangely, she finds herself hoping she passes.

A satisfied little smile stretches Rachel's lips across her pretty face, and Santana takes that to mean that she's passed the other woman's silent test. She's about to ask what that was all about when Rachel speaks again.

"You're very talented too. I can just look at a person and see whether or not they have talent, and you clearly do. Untrained, of course, but it's definitely there. You simply channeled your passion into another direction, which is completely understandable given the difficulties of the artist's life, but I can see that there's much more to you than matchmaking. Not seeking to cast aspersions on your profession, of course, which as I've said is quite a noble pursuit. I just tend to look at people in a much deeper way, and looking at you, I like what I'm seeing. Very much."

Santana blinks, stunned by the torrent of words that's just been hurled at her.

"Do you always speak in paragraphs?"

Rachel just laughs in reply as Santana's washing machine clicks off. She picks up the pen and notebook, and moments later, presents Santana with a freshly torn out page. Her name, phone number, the address of the campus building where the showcase is to be held, and the date and time of the performance are all written on it. Santana's never seen anyone write so fast, yet so neatly. There's even a perfect five-pointed star drawn next to Rachel's name. It's unnervingly impressive.

"Did I? I'm sorry. I've actually gotten much better with that since my high school days. When I get nervous, I tend to talk a lot. Well, more than I usually do, anyway. Not much makes me nervous, of course – I haven't had stage fright since I was three years old." She lowers her eyes, gazes out at Santana from behind her long lashes. "Beautiful women, though...they _always_ make me nervous."

Santana's insides flip at the sultry look Rachel's giving her. She hasn't felt like this...well, not since Brittany. She feels the heat rise in her face, grateful that her dark complexion will hide the blush.

 _Who_ is _this girl, and_ what _is she doing to me?_

"Yeah...I know just what you mean." She locks eyes with Rachel, and any doubts she has about the other woman vanish completely. There's no question: the attraction here is _definitely_ mutual _._

Rachel's stare is so intense that Santana has to look away first. She glances down at the paper again, needing to distract herself from the rather inappropriate thoughts that are racing through her mind. "Um...so...this performance thing – are you being graded on it? Is it, like, your senior thesis or something?"

Rachel giggles, breaking the tension (much to Santana's relief). "Well, I guess you could describe it that way. It _is_ graded, and it's also a competition. I've won a few before. I've lost a few, too. Winning them is much, much better. However, I must admit that I haven't been thinking about the showcase as much as I should be, because I'm thinking much more about the audition I just had."

"An audition! Well, that's exciting." Santana is surprised to realize that she actually _is_ excited for the smaller woman; she can see that Rachel is just _dying_ to tell her all about it. She hopes she's coming off as cool as she thinks she is when she asks, "What was it for, off-Broadway?"

" _On_ Broadway. A revival of _Funny Girl,_ in the role that was originated by my idol, the one and only Barbra Streisand. I trust you've heard of it."

Santana frowns slightly. Normally, she would never feel embarrassed over something like this; yet now she's actually worried that Rachel will be offended by her answer. Still, as a person who's always prided herself on being honest, she swallows and forges ahead.

"No...no, I can't say I have. Sorry. I...I never really followed the whole Broadway thing. Had tickets to _Cats_ years ago, but missed the show when I came down with the flu."

"Oh," Rachel says, crestfallen. Then she brightens. "Oh – well, that's good, actually. Better than good. Now I can teach you all about it! As a matter of fact, I'll be singing my favorite number from the show at my showcase. That gives you even _more_ reason to attend. Well, that and the dinner I'd like to buy for you afterwards."

 _Well, damn. Best laundry day ever,_ Santana thinks. She's aware that the smile she's wearing is kind of loopy, like she's had a little too much to drink. Her insides are still fluttering, and she knows what she's about to say isn't exactly the smoothest thing in the world - but in this moment, it's exactly what she feels, so fuck it.

"You know what, Ms. Rachel Berry, student and future Broadway star? I think I'd like that. I think I'd like that a lot."

* * *

 **A/N: _Of course, I don't own "Glee." If I did, I'd like to think it would still be on the air. Please review! I love getting feedback from readers._**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Matchmaker**

 _ **chapter three**_

 **SANTANA**

"So – to what do I owe this Saturday late afternoon lunch invitation from New York's hottest relationship fixer-upper?" Kurt asks, his trademark wry grin spreading across his face as he fastidiously spreads his napkin across his lap. "A new hottie for me to squire around town, I hope?" He squeezes exactly four drops of lemon into his water, then sets it down next to the glass. "You know all work and no play makes a Kurt a very dull, not to mention unhappy, boy."

On any other day, Santana would cut his way too fashionably dressed ass down to size with a well-placed snarky comeback, but her heart's just not in it today. Her heart, much like that of the Grinch of Christmas TV special lore, feels as though it's grown three sizes; she can't remember the last time she was in this good a mood.

"Sorry, Hummel, no hottie for you this time," she says, scanning the list of appetizers on the Spotlight Diner's expansive menu. "Nope – _this_ time, the hottie is mine, all mine."

Kurt laughs incredulously, scarcely able to believe his ears. It's been so long since Santana's even had a casual hook-up, let alone an actual date, that he can't help but think she's setting him up for the punchline to a particularly savage joke. But when he looks at her and sees the genuinely happy smile lighting up her usually sour countenance, he realizes that she's being completely truthful.

"Oh. My. God. You're serious. Are you telling me the most fiercely single woman in this city has _met someone?_ You _must_ tell me everything! No detail is to be spared."

The laugh that escapes Santana's unadorned lips – she never wears makeup on weekends, because she never has any reason to bother – is light and airy, matching her mood. If she's being honest with herself, the last time she felt like this was when she and Brittany were sixteen years old and just discovering each other. She'd hoped this feeling would come with Dani one day, but maybe that had been the problem; maybe she'd been trying to force with her what had come so naturally, so suddenly, with Rachel.

"Settle down, Ladyface," she jibes, but there's no sting in the words. Besides, she's been calling him that for so long that he hardly even minds it anymore.

"This is as settled as I'm going to get until you spill. So start talking. What's her name?"

Santana grabs one of the small dinner rolls out of the basket, slices it in half and begins to slather it with butter, savoring the look of disgust that clouds Kurt's face as she does. He's been vehemently anti-anything with cholesterol ever since his father suffered a heart attack a few years back.

"Her _name,_ " she begins, around a mouthful of soft, buttery goodness, "is Rachel. We met this morning in the glamorous environs of the laundromat, of all places. You know the one, over by the NYADA campus?"

"You know very well that all my clothes are dry-clean only, and that I have never, _ever_ set foot inside a laundromat," Kurt sniffs disdainfully, looking vaguely insulted.

The waiter, a nondescript young man with puffy black hair, thick glasses and an irritatingly nasal voice, interrupts to take their orders – Caesar salad for him, chicken fingers (he shudders at the name, another source of amusement) for her – and departs with their menus.

"You're right – I should have remembered that, except I don't care. Now, do you want to hear the story or not?"

"Sorry," he answers, not sorry at all. "Please, go on. I do so love a 'meet cute.'"

"So I'm in there doing my laundry, which you know I hate doing because Britt used do it when she was here, and in walks this giant bag of clothing with legs – and _what_ legs! It's wobbling this way and that, threatening to fall the hell over, and no one's making any move to help. So I walk over to find that it's this tiny girl, maybe five foot two at best, struggling to carry this huge bag that's almost bigger than she is, and I help her out with it."

Kurt's eyes widen and his jaw drops. "You actually helped a stranger? _You?_ I can't believe it."

"Hey, I help strangers for a living," Santana protests. "Doesn't mean I have to do it in my free time too."

"So what made this... _Rachel_ the exception to that rule, I wonder? Was it just the legs, or something more?"

She chews thoughtfully at her buttery roll. Yes, at first the attraction was purely physical, she can admit that; but there was something in Rachel's infectious smile, in the honest, completely guileless way she spoke, that set her apart. There was so much life in her, so much energy emanating from her, Santana had been completely helpless to resist it.

"Well, she's beautiful, of course, but not in the usual way. She's got these really big chocolate-brown eyes, and kind of olive-toned skin, a sort of Middle Eastern complexion, and the most amazing smile I've ever seen. I mean, her teeth are so white, they're like Tic-Tacs. And her nose is maybe a little big for her face, but I think it's perfect anyway."

"Fascinating," Kurt murmurs. "Do you know, this is the first time I've ever heard you describe a woman's face before evaluating her body? I must say, it's a welcome change, as your analysis of a woman's breasts, while extraordinarily detailed, is lost on me for the most part – unless of course you're talking about how to fit them into a piece of couture."

 _Do I really do that?_ Santana wonders. _Maybe I just didn't notice Rachel's? And does that make me a bad person, either way? She's so beautiful, I don't even care, really._

"Hello? Santana?" Kurt snaps his fingers inches away from her face. "Are you in there?"

Suddenly wrenched back to reality by the sound of Kurt's voice – and the annoying fingers snapping in front of her – Santana hisses, "If you don't get your fingers out of my face _now,_ Hummel, I promise you're going to _lose_ them – _painfully_."

"Ah, there she is," Kurt smugly replies. "So the mere mention of this girl's name – as well as her other...attributes – is enough to send you spinning into a trance. However, while I'm sure she's fascinating, I do have one concern."

"Since when do you have the right to be _concerned_ about my love life, lady face?"

The dapper young man's smile falls, replaced by an expression of genuine hurt. _Men. They're so sensitive._

"Since your _last_ girlfriend nearly turned your life into a complete shambles. I would have thought I didn't have to remind you," he huffs, clearly offended. "Evidently, that is not the case."

"My life was _already_ mostly in shambles. Dani just brought down the little bit that Britt left standing."

"Sad but true. And who was it that helped you to pick up all those pieces scattered around you? Allow me to refresh your memory, Miss Lopez. It was _moi,_ your loyal, long-time best friend. Oh, and that guy in the wheelchair from your office. But mostly it was me."

Santana lets out a long, low sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry. But honestly, you don't have anything to worry about with Rachel. She's...different. Special. She's not all hard and jaded like Dani was, like so many women in this town. She's so young, so alive, all full of dreams and energy. It's infectious. I...I like the way that feels. I want to feel more of it."

The waiter arrives with their meals and a simpering half-smile that turns into a dejected frown when Kurt waves away his _can I get you anything else_ without so much as a word. It's obvious the poor boy finds Kurt attractive – painfully so – and just as obvious that Kurt isn't the least bit interested. Santana hides her smile with a forkful of chicken dipped in honey mustard, while Kurt fastidiously tucks his cloth napkin into the collar of his shirt, and then tucks into his Caesar salad.

The two best friends eat in companionable silence for a while before Kurt takes a sip of water, then puts down his fork and fixes Santana with a questioning stare.

"Did you say Rachel is... _younger?_ Pray tell, how _much_ younger? Dear god, I hope she's not a freshman. _Please_ tell me you're not about to date a girl who's just barely out of high school!"

Santana nearly chokes on the mouthful she's been chewing, then gulps down half of her own glass of water. "Kurt, are you _insane?_ Of _course_ not!" she whispers harshly. "I should _end_ you for that." She wipes at her mouth with her napkin, then continues in a more normal tone of voice. "She's in her junior year at NYADA, majoring in musical theater, _and_ up for the starring role in a revival of something called _Funny Girl._ I've never heard of it, but she said it's a kind of a big deal."

The way her best friend's jaw drops to the table confirms that. He reaches across the table, grabs her hands. His face is even paler than usual, and she's pretty sure he's close to hyperventilating.

" _Funny Girl_ is a 'big deal' in the same way that the sun is _orange_ and _hot_ , Santana." There's an almost crazed look in his eye; it's more than a little unnerving. "The title role is _only_ one of the most iconic parts in musical theater history, originated and immortalized on the Broadway stage by none other than the legendary Ms. Barbara Streisand herself."

"Um, okay. I get it. She said that too." She pauses, remembering how gravely serious Rachel's expression had been when she'd told her about the audition. "Wow. So...if she gets the part, she could become a big star."

"That's a lot of pressure for someone so young, Santana. Yes, it _could_ make her career – or it could _end_ it just as soon as it begins, if she or the show doesn't do well."

Santana bristles, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Are you saying she's not good enough?"

Kurt backs away, raising his hands in surrender. He knows he's wandered into dangerous territory here, but it's not in his nature to be anything less than completely honest, especially with his best friend. They've known each other too long and been through too much for him to be otherwise.

"I don't know. I haven't heard her sing. Have you?"

"No," Santana admits. "But she invited me to see her perform at her school, and then have dinner with her afterward."

"Really? So _she_ asked _you_ out." He sips at his water. "Huh...it's highly unusual for you not to be the one to make the first move. I'm not sure that's ever happened before. Sounds to me like this girl has really thrown you for a loop."

"I don't _do_ loops, Hummel. She...she just caught me by surprise, that's all. I was thinking about it when she came out of nowhere with the whole school performance thing."

"Well, anyone who can take the famously guarded Santana Lopez by surprise _and_ be considered for the role of Fanny Brice is someone I think I'd like to meet. Fancy taking a plus one to the event?"

 **RACHEL**

The New York Academy of Dramatic Arts was a performing arts college, one of the most respected in the country, but it was still a college. As such, it required its carefully selected student body to take traditional classes in addition to the performance-focused ones, much to Rachel's dismay. She'd always been a very good student, and an exceptional multi-tasker. She was used to dividing her time between academics and her acting, dance and voice lessons, but the demands and expectations of NYADA were far more rigorous than anything she'd experienced back home in Lima. Her drive and determination, along with her talent, had gotten her here, but now she was finding herself challenged to keep up with everything more than ever before.

So it was that Rachel found herself in the library, up to her eyeballs in books and notes, researching and writing a paper while listening to the soundtrack to _Wicked_ on her iPod, trying very hard to concentrate and not allow herself to be distracted by anything. Especially not by thoughts of a certain dark-eyed, dark-haired Latina with skin as smooth as silk and a voice to match. She pushes her laptop aside and drops her head down to the table, groaning.

 _Oh, who are you kidding? You've been here for hours and barely gotten anything done._

Suddenly a familiar – and unwelcome – voice breaks the quiet stillness of the stale library air. Rachel jumps at the sound, cursing under her breath. The _Wicked_ soundtrack had ended ten minutes ago, but with the pods still in her ears, she could claim not to have heard the voice, and thereby justify ignoring it.

"Rachel. Fancy meeting you here."

She peers closely at one of the books on the table, not noticing that it's upside down, softly humming the melody to _Defying Gravity_ and nodding her head in time.

"I know you're ignoring me, Rachel, but that's all right. I can wait. I'm very patient."

Rachel lifts her head and feigns surprise at the sight of the person she's been avoiding all semester, removing the silent pods from her ears and pulling her laptop closer, as though it might serve as a shield. _You knew this was going to happen sooner or later,_ she chides herself. This is not the place, or the time, to have this conversation, but now the moment is upon her. Sighing, she resigns herself to it, sitting up straighter in her chair, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear.

"Jesse," she says coolly. "Sorry - I didn't hear you before." There's not even the slightest hint of an apology in her voice, but he smiles at her anyway.

"In the same way you don't hear your phone when I text or call you, or the alert sound on your laptop when I e-mail you, I suppose."

He sits down at the book-strewn table, ignoring her mental command for him to just go away.

"Look, Rachel, I know you're angry with me, and I don't blame you. I acted badly. I admit it. How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? I never took you for the type to hold a grudge."

She looks through him as though he's not even there, like he's just another shelf of books or one of the nondescript framed posters on the wall. He regards her with an expectant expression on his blandly handsome face. She crosses her arms and glares at him in return.

"You know very well that one of my mottos is _forgive and forget,_ Jesse St. James," she spits, her voice a harsh, angry whisper. "But what you did cannot be forgiven _or_ forgotten. That being said, I've moved on – and you should too."

"Oh, come on, Rachel," comes the expected protest, complete with eyes rolled heavenward and a self-indulgent smirk. "I never meant to hurt you. Surely you can see that."

"And yet you _did._ "

"I was doing you a favor, Rachel. That girl was all wrong for you. As your best friend -"

" _Former_ best friend. You keep leaving that word out."

"So you _have_ read my messages. I knew it!" He pauses to pump his fist, knowing of course that she's always found it to be a ridiculous gesture. "Anyway, as your best friend, it was my most solemn duty to ensure that you didn't end up with someone who wasn't worthy of your talent or your love."

She ignores his pointed, deliberate omission of the word _former._ "Amazing how no one ever _is_ , in your expert opinion. Funny how that works. Only not so much."

"Madison doesn't have a fraction of your talent, and she's nowhere _near_ attractive enough to be seen with you in the _cafeteria_ , much less as your inevitable plus-one at the Tony Awards. I was only looking out for your best interest, I swear."

Rachel feels the hot, stinging tears begin to well up, angrily wipes at her eyes with one hand. She is _not_ going to cry in front of Jesse St. James. Not again. Not _ever_ again.

"I _loved_ her, Jesse! I loved her, and _you_ drove her away," she hisses, her body trembling with barely controlled anger. "Do you know how long it's taken me to get over her? Do you?"

"Yes, yes, you loved her. But did she love _you_ , Rachel? Did she love you the way you deserved to be loved? Madly, passionately, unconditionally? You can continue to deny it all you want, but _I_ knew the truth was that she _didn't -_ and you can't keep being mad at me for showing it to you."

"In a cell phone video of a hook-up that _you_ arranged between Madison and that...that _Jane_ girl! I remember it all too well, Jesse. It's only recently that it's stopped playing in my head every time I close my eyes to try and get to sleep."

He reaches for her hand. She pulls it away, as though recoiling from a venomous snake. There's hurt in his eyes, but her heart is iron.

"It was a desperate situation, Rachel. The signs were all there, right in front of you, but you're so _stubborn_. You – you just _refused_ to see what was happening. I couldn't just stand by and let her continue to make a fool of you. People _talk_ around here. You know that. The longer it went on, the more damage your reputation was going to take. I had to do _something."_

"Right. And that _something_ just had to be the worst, most hurtful, most _humiliating_ thing you could possibly think of doing. Well, you know what?" Rachel suddenly bolts up from her chair, begins to hurriedly collect her things, startling the normally unflappable young man as heavy books are shoved towards him, papers sent flying, scattered all over. "I'm done talking about this. I'm done with _you,_ Jesse. Find another imagined damsel in distress to rescue. I never asked, or needed, you to save me from anything. And for the record - just because I had a moment of weakness, of - of _uncertainty_ , with you, doesn't mean you get to manipulate my life to get the outcome you want. It's _never_ going to happen. _Ever._ "

Jesse just blinks incredulously at her, stunned by the implication in Rachel's words. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about, Rachel. I just - look, I just want my best friend back."

Angrily shoving her laptop into her bag, Rachel glowers at him, her eyes ablaze with fiery tears, her skin heated with long-suppressed rage. He's giving her that look, that same look that always convinced her to go along with whatever he thought she should do. The one that led to the night that was both her greatest regret and her greatest revelation. She shakes her head _no,_ emphatically, drying her eyes roughly with the heels of her hands.

"It's far too late for that, Jesse. It's too late for _anything._ Don't talk to me again."

And with that, she storms from the room, leaving him to the silence of the library, to his memories, to his foolish (and apparently not as secret as he'd believed) dreams. He heaves a sigh, wearily shakes his head. Then there's nothing left to do but start retrieving the books Rachel left behind and get them back on the shelves. It's a gesture she would have appreciated, he thinks.

 **SANTANA**

Nerves aren't something that Santana would ever confess to feeling, but in the dark and quiet hours, when she's alone with her thoughts, she can admit to herself that she's nervous about seeing Rachel again, even if she'd never admit it to anyone else. The truth is, she hasn't felt this way about anything since she'd started her matchmaking business years ago. There's just something about the young Broadway aspirant that's set her entire being humming with restless energy; it's as though a spark has been lit inside her, a spark that's slowly but surely being fanned into a bright, hot flame the more she thinks about Rachel. She's finding it difficult to think about much else, honestly.

Time, she decides, was the problem here.

There was simply too much time between that first, magical meeting in the laundromat and Rachel's showcase at NYADA. They've been exchanging flirtatious, bantering text messages pictures and phone calls that are equal parts saucy and humorous. She's been delighted to discover that Rachel has a dry wit that can leave her weak with laughter, and a salacious streak that can leave her weak in the knees; it's a combination that quickly becoming an addiction. The girl is so smart, so funny, so passionate about her art, that just reading her words on a screen, or even hearing her talk on the phone, just isn't enough anymore.

It's nowhere _near_ enough. Santana needs to _see_ her, needs to be near her, feel the gravitational pull that had drawn them to each other that very first time. She wants to be close enough to see the light that shines in her eyes, dancing mirthfully, in every picture she sends. She wants to take Rachel's hands in her own, marvel at how small, yet how strong, how finely formed they are, revel in the unique blend of softness and strength that has come to define the girl for her in the short time they've known each other.

It's late. Santana knows she should be getting to sleep, but her nerves feel like exposed wires, and all her non-Rachel thoughts are nothing more than a buzz of low-level static. She picks up her phone, goes into the Photos app and a smile instantly curves her lips upward when she sees the first video that Rachel ever sent her. It's just her, in her bedroom, lit only by a couple of small, flickering candles, softly singing _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face_ to a video camera set up only a couple of feet away from her. Santana's not a crier, not really, but when she'd gotten that video, she'd bawled her eyes out like a sixth grader with her first crush.

And then she'd played it again and again, over and over and over. Somehow Rachel had made her tiny dorm bedroom seem like a Broadway stage, her quiet voice containing more power, more emotion than the loudest cry. It was extraordinary, like nothing Santana had ever seen or heard before, and it touched something in a place she hadn't known existed within her, a place that was so deep it had been hidden until that very moment, like a secret door that led to an unknown room.

Which is why – after she's watched the video a few more times – she finds herself worrying her lip between her teeth with her finger hovering over Rachel's number, wanting desperately to call the girl, despite the hour. It's so quiet that her pounding heart sounds louder than the worst New York City traffic jam. She doesn't know when or how this need became so vital, and she supposes it doesn't really matter.

She just knows that she wants Rachel, wants her badly.

Finger meets screen, and she hears the ring of Rachel's phone, prays for an answer that's not the message that says, _You have reached Rachel Berry's phone. Please leave your name, number and a brief message and I'll return your call just as soon as I possibly can. Thanks!_

"H- _hello?_ " comes the groggy, yet still impossibly cute voice. Santana smiles despite feeling badly about waking Rachel.

"Hi. Sorry to wake you up. I...I couldn't sleep."

"No...no, that's all right. I was – I was just dreaming," Rachel whispers. Santana can practically hear her squinting in the darkness at the alarm clock on the little nightstand, then looking over at her fortunately still out cold roommate in the bed across the room. "Hold on. Let me go out to the living room so I don't wake up Tina."

"Okay. Take your time. And don't trip over anything."

There's a soft _bump_ sound. Santana's heart leaps into her throat. " _Ow!_ You jinxed me."

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry, Rachel. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Tina's not out here, which is good, because if she was, I wouldn't be. Fine, I mean. She's really sweet, but she takes her sleep _very_ seriously."

"You do too. Which is why, again, I'm sorry I woke you. I know I shouldn't have, but I..." Santana pauses, heaves a sigh. "I wanted to hear your voice. And...to ask you something."

"I can only assume that _something_ is very important, or you wouldn't have called me at this hour about it." Some of the sleepiness has left Rachel's voice; the tone is light, letting Santana know she's forgiven. "Hold on – I'm getting some water. My throat's a little dry."

"Okay," Santana says, listening to the sound of water filling a glass, then the sound of it being thirstily gulped down. "Feel better now?"

"Much. Thank you. So, Miss Late Night Caller, what is it you called at this late hour to ask?"

"I wanted to know - oh, God, now that I'm doing this, it feels so silly. Ugh, I'm like, back in junior high with the sweaty palms and racing heartbeat." Santana takes a deep breath. _Why is this so difficult? Maybe this was a mistake._ It had seemed like such a good idea just a few minutes ago...

"Santana. Whatever it is, it's all right," Rachel says, and the gentle concern in her voice instantly brings Santana back to herself. "I get the sense that this really _is_ important for you, so just relax and tell me what's on your mind. Okay?"

"Okay. All right. Look, I'm not good at this – mostly because I've never done it before – but I...I just can't wait until the showcase to see you again. So I wanted to know if maybe you might want to, you know, meet for coffee or something later. If – if you're not too busy, that is."

 _There. I said it._ Santana holds her breath, waiting for the answer, hoping harder for a _yes_ than she's ever hoped for anything in her life, even though she knows there's no reason why she should expect anything else.

"You really called me at three o'clock in the morning to ask me out on a _coffee date_ , Santana?"

The air rushes out of her as though she's taken a punch to the stomach. She hurries to answer, to end the call before it spirals into something even more humiliating than it already is. "Um, yeah. You know what, though? This was silly. A really bad idea. I'm so sorry I woke you, Rachel. I'll just – I'll just hang up and let you get back to sleep now."

" _Santana._ You will do no such thing!"

There's an edge to Rachel's voice that Santana's never heard before. She's not one to take orders from anybody, which is why she's her own boss and not somebody's employee, but Rachel is so forceful, so commanding, that she can do nothing more than blink, staring into darkness.

"What you are _going_ to do, Santana, is stay on the phone and talk with me until I get sleepy again, because I'm too excited about the fact that you just _asked me out_ to go back to bed. Understood?"

The smile that spreads across Santana's face is so wide it actually hurts, but she barely feels the pain. "Yes, ma'am."

"No one's ever called me _ma'am_ before," Rachel giggles. "I only ever called friends' moms, or my teachers, _ma'am._ "

"I'll try not to make a habit of it, then." The music of Rachel's laughter sounds in her ear again, and Santana's heart feels like a light, glow-y thing in her chest. "Although I have to say, I couldn't really help myself after the voice you used on me there. So bossy. So hot."

"Hmm... _bossy,_ was it? I never thought of it that way. Really, it's just the voice I use when I need someone to do something, and I don't want to waste time arguing about it. I found it remarkably effective back when I was leading my high school glee club to our national championship victories."

"Are you telling me that none of your teammates ever once called you that?" Santana asks bemusedly. She slides her body beneath her blanket to get more comfortable, completely relaxed now that her earlier tension over asking Rachel out has been resolved.

"Well, they might have, but I didn't really listen to that sort of thing. Every ship needs a captain –" Santana hears the shrug in her voice. " - ours just happened to need one more than most, and since I had the most training and competitive experience, it was only natural that I should be the one in charge. Well, me and our faculty advisor, anyway."

"I was a cheerleader in high school," Santana volunteers, suddenly recalling nearly forgotten days of long football games, longer practices, and even longer competitions against other schools' squads.

"Stop it!" Rachel exclaims. Then, more quietly, remembering that Tina is still blissfully slumbering in the other room, she continues, giggling softly. "You were _not._ I simply _cannot_ imagine you standing on the sidelines going, _Yay team!_ "

"It's true! And not only was I a cheerleader, I was a damned good one. Captain of the squad, in fact. And a badass. They called me the Head Bitch in Charge. I kept everyone in line, on their toes and in shape. They didn't want to cross me, because if they did...well, let's just say that it wasn't pleasant for them."

"So that's where you cultivated your tough exterior?"

"You think I have a tough exterior? Is that a turn-on for you?"

"Not _tough,_ exactly. More like _guarded,_ or _wary._ I figure it's because somewhere along the line, someone hurt you, and you need to protect yourself. But I can _also_ see that beneath that hard outside, there's a soft and sweet inside, like..." Rachel pauses, searching for a good analogy. But it's late, and she's starting to get a little drowsy again, and all she can think of is, "Like an Oreo. That's it – like an Oreo cookie."

"Okay, first – _wanky._ I mean, crème filling and all that. But second, _no._ I'm not a cookie. I am no form of snack food."

"Oh, but you _are,_ Santana. You're _my_ cookie. In fact, I think that will be my special, secret nickname for you. Cookie. I like it," Rachel drawls, feeling the pull of sleep upon her eyelids as she lets out a hearty yawn. "Yes. You're my sweet and tasty cookie."

"I – I am _not!_ I mean, I – ugh! How do you make me _not_ hate this?" Santana weakly protests, realizing that she secretly loves what she's just heard, but can never, _ever_ admit it.

"Just a special gift I have, cookie. Accept it and move on. I can hear your pout from here, you know."

"That's where you're wrong. I never pout." Santana replies, steadfastly ignoring the fact that her lips are indeed thrust outward in the way they used to be when she was a little girl and her _mami_ told her she couldn't have...oh, God...a _cookie_ before dinner. "And I hate you just a tiny bit right now."

Yawning again, Rachel matter-of-factly says, "No, you don't. I know that because you just asked me out on a coffee date. And later today, when we're both much more awake, I'll get a text from you telling me where and when to meet. Until then, I'm going to go back to bed and see if I can't get back to the _very_ nice dream I was having when you called."

"Oh? And what was that dream about?"

" _You,_ silly. And on that note, you should hang up now, unless you want to listen to me sleep in the vain hope that I'll talk while I slumber."

 _Oh._ Getting flustered was not something to which Santana would ever admit, either, but somehow, Rachel Berry possessed a distinct talent for knocking her off-kilter in the most pleasant of ways.

"Um, okay. Yeah. I...I'll just go now, then," she stammers, feeling her face flush and her mouth go a little dry.

"Sweet dreams, cookie." Another yawn. _She's fading fast._

"Goodnight, Rachel. And thanks."

"For...for what?"

"Saying yes."

She ends the call and stares at the phone for a moment before letting out a happy, contented sigh. _I am_ so _not a cookie, though. But you know...if I_ were, _which I'm completely_ not, _an Oreo is definitely the best kind to be, because they're totally badass. And so good with milk. So yeah, I'm awesome and so are they. Fuck, now I want to get up and have some Oreos._

And as Santana heads off to the kitchen in the dark, she swears a silent vow to make Rachel Berry pay if a plate of Oreos with a glass of milk becomes a late-night habit – although, she muses, she might not mind so much if Rachel were here to share them.

 _No, that wouldn't be a bad thing at all,_ she thinks, smiling.

* * *

 **A/N: Profuse apologies for the extreme length of time between updates. Life gets in the way, blah blah blah, I'm sure you know how it goes. Still, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it - and that you'll leave a review or send me a PM to let me know what you liked, didn't like or would like to see happen in future installments. As always, I own neither _Glee_ nor any brands mentioned in this story. No delicious sandwich cookies were harmed in the writing of this story (except the ones I _may_ have eaten). Until next time, dear readers...**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Matchmaker**

 _chapter four_

 **SANTANA**

The coffee shop Santana has chosen for their date is almost exactly halfway between her place and Rachel's dorm building on the NYADA campus; she's proud of herself (and her awesome Internet research skills) for finding such a nearly perfect meeting place. It had taken her no small amount of time, but still less than she'd expected, so she'd had plenty of time to shower and pick out the perfect first date outfit. Adrenaline is running fast and furious through her body, and she keeps picking up her phone and looking at the clock on the lock screen as though that might somehow make time go faster. She rolls her eyes at herself, exasperated by what she considers to be schoolgirl-like behavior, even as she acknowledges that it's okay for her to be happy. It's been so long since the last time she felt like this that it's almost an alien sensation.

"You need to _welcome_ the butterflies, San," Brittany might say. "Otherwise they'll get all sad and lie around in your stomach and give you indigestion."

She'd never been able to argue with the girl's logic, as seemingly incomprehensible as it sometimes was. Brittany had possessed an extraordinary emotional IQ, an uncanny ability to see beneath the surface with everyone they'd ever known, particularly with Santana. No doubt the cat-eyed dancer would look at her right now and tell her to let the butterflies flutter freely, over Santana's hopeless denials that she was feeling anything at all, let alone a bunch of silly flying insects in her stomach. Calm, cool and collected, that was the Lopez persona – unless, of course, someone or something pissed her off. Then her angry alter ego, the volatile Snixx, would emerge to lay waste to the offending party with vicious, vicious words, and maybe even a hard slap right across the face for good measure.

But she wasn't angry with herself, not really; just anxious and excited and _hopeful._ Again, that last one felt almost brand new to her, after all the heartache she'd endured with Brittany leaving and Dani's exhausting, chaotic ways. Maybe Kurt was more right than he knew when he'd implied that she was ready to settle down – one of the things she liked most about Rachel was how _stable_ she seemed to be, so focused and determined and goal-oriented. Brittany had pretty much stumbled into her dance career, and Dani was always careening about from place to place, job to job; it had seemed to Santana that neither of them had ever truly had any idea as to what their _purpose_ in life was, and they were just waiting around for someone to tell them. Of course, when someone finally did that for Brittany, it resulted in a sudden, shocking, painful and disorienting breakup that had left Santana so heartbroken that she'd tried desperately to fill the void with one meaningless hook-up after another, and then got together with Dani even though she instinctively knew that girl, with the blue and purple streaks in her hair and slightly unbalanced smile, was nothing but trouble. (She just hadn't known _how_ much trouble she would ultimately prove to be, nor how much damage she would inflict.)

The sound of her phone ringing jolts Santana from the unpleasant memory, and the sour mood it's put her in leads her to worry that it's Rachel calling to cancel their date. The mood quickly evaporates, however, turning to surprise when she sees the name and number on the screen.

She doesn't even try to hide the surprise in her voice when she answers. " _Shelby?_ Shelby _Corcoran?_ I haven't heard from you in, like, for _ever_. How are you?"

"Hello, Santana. I know it's been a long time since we last spoke. I'm sorry about that. Are you still in the same office?" The older woman's voice is as melodious as Santana remembers it, which makes sense, of course, what with Shelby Corcoran's former life as New York City's favorite cabaret _chanteuse_ and onetime Broadway star and all.

"No, we moved a year and a half ago. I am, however, still in the same apartment - by myself these days, sadly, but that's another story. One I don't really feel like getting into, before you ask," Santana replies, pulling a face as though the memory of Brittany's abandonment is a carton of spoiled milk she's just made the mistake of opening.

"You and Brittany split up? Really? Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. She was a sweet girl, if a little loopy."

"Not loopy enough to reject an offer to tour with Beyonce as one of her backup dancers."

"You're kidding! _Beyonce,_ huh? Wow." Hearing the surprise and admiration in Shelby's voice, Santana can't even begrudge the fact that she's impressed. Even as terribly hurt as she was by Brittany's abrupt departure from her life, she still can't help but be proud of the girl's success.

" _Wow_ is right. She lives in Hollywood now, when she's not on tour or choreographing the latest, hottest shows and tours for Mike Chang."

"Ah, yes - superstar choreographer Mike Chang," Shelby says. "Did I ever tell you I knew that boy when he was just _Dancer #2_ in the chorus line? I knew even back then that he was something special. If he's taken Brittany under his wing, he must think _she's_ pretty special too."

"Under his wing, yeah. And in his fucking _house_ , too." Santana's tone is unmistakable; she wants to change the subject _now,_ and Shelby's smart enough to take the hint.

"Well, you're probably wondering why I'm calling, right?"

"The question _has_ crossed my mind several times now, yes."

Shelby chuckles lightly. "Ever the patient one. Okay, are you sitting down?" At Santana's _mm-hmm,_ she continues. "You remember I hired you a few years ago because I was tired of dating egocentric, self-involved show business people, right?"

"How could I forget? Actors, directors, producers, set designers even...you tried 'em all and found them wanting. And then I matched you up with that high school teacher guy, if I recall correctly."

"Yes, you did. That's right."

"What was his name again? Sandy...Sandy something. Wait, wait...Sandy Ryerson, right?"

"Yes, that's right. Now serving time for selling illegally obtained medical marijuana at an obscene mark-up."

Santana gasps, then laughs out loud. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't – it's not funny. Even _I_ get 'em wrong sometimes, I guess. Wait – I remember you only went out with him a few times, but you never told me why things ended so quickly."

"Actually, it's _hilarious."_ Shelby laughs, loud and heartily, from deep in her throat. "And why do you _think_ I never told you why I stopped seeing him? Ugh, the _embarrassment._ But don't worry – I'm not calling to demand a refund or anything."

"Well, that's good," Santana replies, smiling, all her tension forgotten. She pours herself a tall glass of iced tea, choosing to put off her craving for caffeine until her date with Rachel. "Cause you're not getting it back, anyway. I spent it when we had to decorate the new office."

"It turns out that it was the best money I ever spent, after all. After Sandy got into trouble, I dumped him, of course – he was a _terrible_ boyfriend, anyway. I knew something was up when our first date was at Sheets n' Things. He spent practically the entire time talking about the importance of thread count." There's a chuckle, but it sounds nervous, and then a pause, and Santana gets the impression that Shelby's considering her next words carefully. It doesn't take long for her to find out why. "After that...well, you know the deal. One guy after another, each relationship shorter than the last. I actually got pretty depressed for a while there. I became convinced that I was never going to find someone, that I was doomed to die alone."

Yeah, no wonder Shelby hadn't been great at keeping in touch. Santana grimaced; she could relate, unfortunately. Been there, bought the T-shirt _and_ the hat.

"And then I met Emma."

Santana coughs, sputters, " _Excuse_ me? Did I hear you correctly? I could have sworn you said, _and then I met Emma._ "

Shelby laughs again, and it reminds Santana, oddly, of Rachel's laugh. The impression is fleeting, disappearing just as quickly as it came.

"Yes, you heard me correctly. Okay, here's what happened: there was a support group for despondent singles that met in the high school where Sandy used to teach. The meetings were held on – what was it, Tuesday or Wednesday nights? Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. Anyway, I start attending, because my days of fame are far enough behind me that I can do these things without worrying about paparazzi following me and taking pictures to pair with the sad headline on Page Six – _Former Broadway star hits social rock bottom, attends lonely hearts group session in dumpy local high school!"_ They both laugh, and Santana feels a sense of relief at knowing her friend has gotten to a place where she can joke not only about her dating life, but her singing career being over too. Goodness knows neither of them had been sure that would ever come to pass in the sad and angry days following the ill-fated surgery that had taken Shelby's once-golden voice away forever.

"Just so you know, I _totally_ would've bought that newspaper," Santana jibes. Good-natured mockery has always been their thing, having become friends after the mutual decision had been made to end their business relationship.

"Not only would you have _bought_ that newspaper, you would have framed that page and then hung it up in your office."

"Damned right I would have. And then, if I'd been reached for comment, I would have told the press, _H_ _ey, it wasn't my fault. She's just undateable!_ "

"Oh, you're such a bitch," Shelby gasps in between gales of laughter.

"I never claimed otherwise. So, are you going to get to the point of this story or what? I've got a hot date this afternoon, and I really _don't_ want to be late."

"Oh, really? Good for you. You'll have to tell me all about it when Emma and I take you out for dinner tomorrow night. How does seven o'clock sound?"

"Sounds awesome." _Maybe Rachel will be free and want to join us?_ Santana wonders absently. "But I still want to hear about you and this _Emma_ person, so spill already."

"All right, all right – _so._ I walk into this meeting, and there's this petite redhead sitting there, wearing the most ridiculous blouse, bright yellow with a gigantic _bow_ on it, and she's got these super wide eyes, like she's perpetually surprised or frightened, and they're darting all around the room as though she's thinking something or someone's going to jump out and attack everyone. And I just thought, she's just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. I thought she looked like a baby bird or something."

"I've gotta say, I did _not_ have you pegged as someone with a thing for bows."

"Shush – I'm telling a story here!"

"Sorry, mom. Please, continue."

"Anyway, I sat next to her, right before this tall, curly-haired guy with an absurd amount of product in his hair could take that seat, and before the meeting even started, it was like, _let's get out of here._ Something just _clicked,_ and we both felt it. So we left and went to the diner down the street, and we ate and talked and laughed for hours. I'd never met anyone like her before – so sweet and nice, so... _innocent,_ almost."

A jolt of realization passes through Santana's body at Shelby's words, at the sound of the obviously smitten woman's voice. It sounds a lot like her own, whenever she talks about the pint-sized theater student with the outsized voice and personality to match.

"It's funny," she says, her own voice taking on a tinge of wonder. "I felt the same thing when Rachel and I met, that _click_ thing you mentioned. Like, suddenly, I just _had_ to get to know her. Instant fascination."

"Yes!" Shelby exclaims. "Exactly. It was what I'd always hoped to feel when I met the right person, one day...I just never thought it would be another woman." Shelby pauses, and Santana can hear her collecting her thoughts, struggling to find the words to explain what she means. "I mean, I had... _experiences_ in college, if you know what I mean – and I know you _do -_ but I guess, with my upbringing, it never occurred to me to think that the reason I was never happy with a guy was because I was meant to be with a woman. Or at least with one _particular_ woman, anyway."

"It never occurred to me to suggest it to you, honestly. It wasn't my place to do that, anyway, even if it had. But, honest truth time here - I was always thinking, what is _up_ with her? Is she like, super-picky, does she have unrealistic demands or expectations, or what is it? Why can't a beautiful, smart, talented and successful woman like her find a guy and settle down? I never once thought it might be because you didn't know you were playing for the wrong team."

"Better late than never, right?" Shelby laughs. Then her voice takes on a much more serious tone. "I'm glad you never made that suggestion, to tell you the truth. It probably would have _terrified_ me, and I would have run away screaming. I just wasn't ready for it then. Anyway, Emma will be home soon, and I should let you go so you can get yourself ready for that hot date. We're on for tomorrow night, right? Oh, and bring Rachel if she's free. I'd love to meet her."

Santana smiles, having already thought of having Rachel join them. "Oh, we are _so_ on for tomorrow night. And yeah, I'll ask Rachel if she'd like to come along. That would be fun."

"All right, then. Does Italian work for you? Emma _loves_ Italian. She would eat pasta every day if I'd let her. I'll text you the name and address of the place later."

"That absolutely works for me, as long as the place has breadsticks. You know I _gots_ ta have my breadsticks, woman!"

"Okay, great. Text me later and let me know how the date went. I want _all_ the juicy details!"

"I will, right after I give them to Kurt first. He'd fucking kill me if he wasn't the first to know. I'm sure you remember how he can be sometimes."

"Oh, yes. He's more of a drama queen than I am!" the ex-Broadway star chuckles. "Still, he's a great friend and he really cares about you, so I won't complain about being the _second_ to know. Well, not _too_ much, anyway."

"Thanks. And Shelby? I'm really, really glad you're happy. You deserve it."

"Hey, you do too. And it sounds to me like maybe – just maybe – you might have found some happiness of your own."

 **RACHEL**

The texts and e-mails have been constant, a never-ending electronic stream of apologies that Rachel might find flattering if she weren't still so angry. In the abstract, it's possible that she might one day forgive Jesse, but she can't imagine a scenario in which that would actually happen. Bad things, even when done with the best of intentions, are still bad things, and in the end, the negative effects outweigh whatever good he'd thought he was trying to do.

 _Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete._ She'd admire his persistence if it weren't so damned _annoying._ The thought makes her uncomfortable, realizing that some of the people in her high school glee club had said much the same about her, once upon a time. Still, _that_ was different. She was all about the _team,_ not about herself, regardless of what anyone else thought. But Jesse? He's not doing this for her, she thinks. No, he's merely trying to absolve himself of his well-earned guilt not because he truly feels bad, but because it proves that he's not as brilliant as he thought he was. Rachel has no doubt that he had never thought her capable of holding him accountable for what he'd done.

But she _had_ held him accountable, and she vows that she will continue to do so, right up until the day they graduate, if necessary. _No one makes a fool of Rachel Berry and gets away with it_ , she fumes, dragging the hairbrush through her long brown locks for at least the thousandth time.

She sighs, puts the brush down and closes her eyes; then, deeply inhaling, she counts backwards from ten in an effort to regain control of her emotions. She refuses to let this negative energy taint the very lovely coffee date she's got planned with Santana. Images of smooth, tan skin and dark hair flutter through her mind, and she takes a deep breath, finding the calm that's been eluding her for most of the morning. Mercedes and Tina had their own things going on: homework to do, errands to run, social rituals to observe (the two never, ever missed breakfast at the Spotlight Diner together on Saturdays and Sundays, waiting until after Mercedes' church attendance on the latter), so they'd been flitting around the cramped on-campus apartment space like drunken moths until finally departing for their sacred weekend morning meal, which had not helped Rachel to locate her much-needed focus.

(Rachel was actually grateful for the quiet - the irony of which was not lost upon her, knowing that she was rarely quiet herself.)

Now she savored the stillness, the silence, draped it like a cloak around her shoulders, reveled in it. Now she could finally think, center, channel her energy into the most important task of this most important day: presenting her best self to Santana.

Santana Lopez was not entirely a woman of mystery. In fact, she was something of a local celebrity, known as one of the city's best practitioners of the now-making-sort-of-a-comeback art of matchmaking. (Rachel _may_ have done a little bit of Googling earlier in the week, trying to learn more about the woman with whom she was soon to share coffee – and maybe more? - later this day.) Santana was reluctant to discuss her business with Rachel, which the younger woman could understand; after all, they'd only just met, and a few bantering and perhaps slightly flirtatious texts and phone conversations did not a true relationship make. Still, no one could blame her for wanting to know something of the person beneath the arrestingly beautiful surface, not really. She was Rachel Berry, and once she became curious about something, she simply _had_ to know all she could about it. That was just her nature. It always had been.

Santana's company, "Hearts of the City," had a snappy, state of the art web site, complete with slick animations and video testimonials from some of the firm's most satisfied clients. When she'd looked it up, Rachel had been impressed, to say the least, and she was particularly pleased by the way it catered to a diverse clientele, pairing up straight and same-sex couples of varying ethnicities and ages with equal success. _Love is love,_ as they say, and it appeared that Santana Lopez and her staff were all about finding love for just about anyone who asked. She also noted, with some surprise, that the website indicated that the company had a sliding fee scale, assisting the less well-off as often as they did the moneyed class that ruled the city.

Armed with this knowledge, Rachel felt even better about the possibility of embarking on a real romance with the older woman. The thought of her age, however, made her frown slightly, remembering her roommates' mock-scandalized reactions when she'd told them all about how she'd met Santana. She knew it was simply because they cared about her, and because they really liked teasing her besides, but she felt their concerns, while admirable, were a tad overblown. Santana wasn't really _that_ much older, being something of a matchmaking prodigy, although yes, Rachel had to concede it was true that she had at least a couple of years on her – maybe, what, four or five? Age was just a number, Rachel insisted. It simply didn't matter if the attraction was there - and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it _was,_ thank you very much.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Rachel considers what she sees there. She's never been good at hiding things from anybody, least of all herself. Her dads, teachers and friends had all said she was honest to a fault. They were right, of course. However, she's always tried to be nice when it comes to expressing her honest opinions – except when she herself is the subject of her own internal conversations. Large, chocolate-brown eyes carefully scrutinize the girl in the reflective glass, taking stock, looking for flaws, searching for all the things that might need improvement. It's that kind of brutal self-examination that makes the stars of stage and screen who they are, she believes. One can never be completely satisfied with oneself, because that means there's nothing left for which to hunger, no overarching goal towards which to strive.

She runs down her mental checklist, drawing the appropriate symbol in each little box: her chestnut hair looks good, finally at just the right length to compliment the shape of her face; her body, in a clingy black top and tight blue jeans, is in the best condition it's ever been, thanks (ironically) to the grueling workout regimen her tyrannical Dance 101 teacher had created for her back in her first year at NYADA; and her skin, as always, is radiant.

She looks up into the top right hand corner of the mirror, that sacred space that's always been reserved for the small, square picture of herself and Finn: her laughing in his long arms, him smiling that strange but endearing half-smile, just the one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. It had been taken not long before – her throat tightens at the memory – before _then._ Before he'd left her. Before he'd left _everyone._

She tells herself for approximately the billionth time that she can't, shouldn't be mad at _him_ , that it wasn't his fault, after all, but she's helpless as always against the sudden surge of anger and sadness that threatens to undermine the peace and calm she's worked so hard to achieve. Without turning her eyes to the cat calendar on the wall, she knows the anniversary date is approaching soon, that an e-mail from his mother Carole will be arriving in her inbox soon to remind her, as though she could possibly ever forget. Then she silently chastises herself for the tiny spark of anger she feels towards Mrs. Hudson, knowing that the older woman has suffered far more than she has, more than anyone ever should. They'd been more than neighbors, more than a parent and a child's friend; they'd been friends themselves, still were friends – but now that friendship had a permanent cloud hovering above it, and they both knew it. How could it be otherwise, given what she and Finn had been to each other? They'd shared their entire childhood and adolescence together, all the most important moments in their lives, mattered more to each other than anyone...and then he was just _gone,_ vanished in an instant, as though he'd been nothing more than a pleasant, years-long dream.

Finn was the first person other than her dads who'd ever listened – really, truly _listened_ to her – who actually valued what she had to say. He'd been her biggest cheerleader, her greatest source of strength and support, even when they'd had to keep their friendship a secret for a whole year after he became the quarterback of the McKinley High football team, and by default the most popular boy in school. He'd always had the good grace to feel badly about that, but Rachel understood it. He needed that social standing to survive, to get the football scholarship that would save Carole from drowning in debt to pay for his college education, and she couldn't possibly hold it against him, no matter how lonely she'd often felt as a result. Fortunately, Quinn and especially Marley had come along, and that had really been a godsend. But even they hadn't quite entirely filled the Finn-sized hole in her life that had existed until he'd defied the social hierarchy and changed things in that school forever by declaring that he could be both the quarterback and the male lead in the Glee Club.

Which, with her help and guidance (not to mention a _lot_ of intense dance practice), he did – brilliantly.

So it's no wonder that in the time that's passed since – since _then –_ she's looked at that picture and asked him to return that guidance whenever an important moment in her life comes up. It had been just as much him as it had been Quinn and Marley and (ugh) Jesse that had convinced her she had what it takes to audition for, and maybe even win, her dream role in _Funny Girl._ It had been Finn, smiling down on her from wherever his kind soul had taken up residence among the stars, who had assured her that Madison would be open to romance with her. And now she finds herself asking him if what she feels building between herself and Santana is truly as potentially life-altering as she's beginning to believe it is.

She feels the answer as a pleasant, light quickening in her blood, singing in her veins: _Yes._

"Thank you, Finn," she whispers. Then she leans forward to kiss the air between her and the snapshot, and with two flicks of her wrist, she grabs her purse and keys off the bed and leaves for coffee with Santana, an old song that she and the quarterback had both loved echoing in her mind. Moments later, as she emerges from the dormitory building to merge with the busy Saturday afternoon sidewalk traffic, she finds herself humming the words, which now feel something like a benediction.

 _And I feel that when I'm with you – it's all right. I know it's right._

 **SANTANA**

She knows she shouldn't be smirking right now, sitting at the little out-of-the way booth in the cozy coffee shop she'd picked out for their date, but ever since Rachel had told her so earnestly about how much she believes _being early is the new being on time,_ she'd planned to make sure that she was here first. Something about Rachel's pronouncement had activated the intensely competitive side of her personality, which had kind of been lying dormant since her days on the cheerleading squad back in high school, so when she saw the opportunity to best Rachel at something - even something as silly as this - she'd become absolutely determined to do so.

Yet when she sees the diminutive singer stride through the door to the place as though she owns it, the smirk of triumph becomes a smile of pride, tinged with a bit of wonder. There's something about the confidence in her bearing, the upward tilt of her head, the light trailing after her as the door slowly swings shut behind, that makes Santana regard Rachel with a kind of amazement. How is it that someone so small can have a presence so large, a personality of such size that it fills each and every room she enters?

When she finally gets to the booth, all Santana can do is rise from her seat and say, "I'm so glad you're here." Her eyes follow Rachel as the smaller girl settles into the seat on the opposite side. She looks down for a moment as she places her purse beside her, then looks directly into Santana's eyes.

And then Rachel says, "The feeling is most definitely mutual," and her smile is so bright it's like she's swallowed the sun.

There have been precious few moments in Santana's life where she can honestly say her breath has been taken away, stolen right from her lungs – in fact, she could count them on one hand – but this seemingly very ordinary moment, right here, right now, is certainly one of them. She can't stop looking at Rachel, looking, looking, looking, as though she's afraid that the girl across from her is just a mirage, a pleasant hallucination she's having.

"What?" Rachel frowns with concern. "Is something wrong? Do I...do I look okay?"

"No," Santana says, her voice low, pitched so only Rachel can hear. "You look...beautiful. Really, really beautiful."

The look of faint uncertainty that had briefly crumpled Rachel's features instantly falls away, gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by a look of such complete, unadulterated happiness that Santana finds herself just a little choked up. Her heart swells with affection for the girl as she begins chattering about how lovely this little place is, with the various pictures of the neighborhood as it's looked through the last several decades hung up on the walls, and all the people of varying ages, ethnicities and backgrounds gathered there, savoring their deliciously brewed beverages. Santana's watching more than listening, taking in every change in Rachel's delightfully animated face, observing the way she uses her tiny hands to illustrate her points with the gusto of a conductor directing a symphony orchestra. She hasn't been so completely and utterly charmed by anyone like this since Brittany.

But where Brittany's charm had come from her quirky, almost child-like way of looking at life, her free-spirited way of moving through the world to the beat of a drum only she could ever hear, Rachel's is entirely more sensual. The way she speaks, the music that colors her voice even when she's not singing, is absolutely entrancing to Santana, as is the passion with which she details her likes and dislikes about everything from Broadway to artificial sweetener. If the world was a Disney cartoon with Brittany, it's a movie musical with Rachel - twice as big as life, with a hummable soundtrack that never stops.

Suddenly, Rachel stops talking, fixes Santana with a look that's not unlike that of a mother noticing the first signs of fever in a child. "Santana, are you all right? You've hardly said a word, nor have you stopped staring at me since I sat down. Maybe that's _my_ fault – you're probably tired, and I've failed to get us the coffee we came here to enjoy in the first place. Here, allow me to rectify that mistake right now."

She rises from the table with a look of such seriousness that Santana has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing out loud. "No, no," she says, gesturing with her hands for Rachel to resume her seat. "Sit your tiny, adorable ass down. I'm the one who asked you on this date. No way are you paying for it. I'll just be gone a minute, and then you and I are getting our caffeine on. _¿Tú entiendes?_ "

Rachel blinks, sits back down slowly. "I love it when you speak Spanish to me," she says, her voice quiet and breathy, her eyes darker than their normal chocolate shade. Santana could swear she sees a bit of a flush rising beneath Rachel's olive-hued cheeks, makes a mental note to file that away under _turn-ons_.

"Oh? _Realmente quiero besarte ahora mismo_ ," Santana replies. Her tone is light, but she's never felt anything more strongly in her life. Internally, she's cursing the fact that they're in this stupid little coffee shop, surrounded by hipsters and students and old folks, and not somewhere _way_ more private – like, say, her place. Still, she manages a genuinely sweet smile and saunters off to the counter, knowing from past conversations exactly what to order for Rachel.

As she stands in line behind a pair of extremely fashionable, chatty young men (obviously NYADA students – they remind her of Kurt and his on-again, off-again boyfriend Blaine) and a tall, grumpy woman who keeps looking at her watch and muttering to herself, Santana still can't keep her eyes off Rachel, enjoying the clingy top and tight jeans she's wearing. It's a modest outfit, really. It doesn't expose a lot of skin, but it does show off the lines and curves of her well-toned body just the same. The girl herself is oblivious to Santana's stare. She's looking out the window, or down at the table, tapping her fingers and humming to herself (a show tune, no doubt), looking for all the world like she's waiting to audition for the part of Cutest Girl on Planet Earth.

(As far as Santana's concerned, she's got the part.)

The two chatty boys finally shut up long enough to place their orders, much to Santana's relief. They remain quiet while they wait, and their drinks come fairly quickly. They thank the girl behind the counter politely, then scurry off to wherever musically inclined fashionista boys go on sunny Saturday afternoons. The grumpy woman with the watch fixation takes what seems like forever to decide what she wants; Santana strongly considers administering a swift application of her knee-high boot to the woman's posterior before she finally spits out her order. When the woman looks at her watch again, the girl behind the counter rolls her eyes and smiles at Santana as if to say, _What are you gonna do?_ Santana merely shrugs in response. She's a little proud of herself for not giving in to her normal impulse to present Ms. Hurry-the-Fuck-Up-Already with a good old fashioned tongue lashing as a parting gift, knowing that Rachel would probably not be at all impressed by the scene _that_ would make.

Finally, she gets to the counter and orders Rachel's drink expertly, pleased with herself for remembering every last detail of the complex list of ingredients, then orders her own (much simpler) drink. The counter girl gives her a shy smile and compliments her name, clearly flirting, but instead of feeling flattered, as she normally would, Santana finds herself feeling strangely insulted; like, _Don't you see that I'm_ with _someone, and an obviously_ amazing _someone at that?_ She catches herself then, realizing the implications, and gives the girl a small smile – large enough not to be rude, but small enough to let the girl know that she's not at all interested.

That doesn't keep the girl from writing her name ( _Tori,_ same as on her name tag) and phone number on the receipt, along with _Call me!_ (two little hearts replacing the dots beneath the exclamation points) before handing it and the two drinks to Santana mere minutes later. That's what she gets for trying to be subtle.

 _Ugh,_ Santana thinks. _Does that really work on anyone? Ever?_

Rachel chooses that exact moment to look her way, and the smile she sends her way is so ridiculously happy that Santana forgets all about her annoyance with the coffee girl, and the grumpy-ass slow poke, and the chatty boys who had all gone before her. All she knows or cares about now is the girl who's waiting for her coffee, so she decides she'd best get to stepping before someone else notices there's no one sitting in the booth across from her.

She sets the drinks down on the table before sliding back into her seat. "Here you go. One soy vanilla latte for you, with non-dairy whipped cream and non-dairy chocolate shavings, as requested, and one triple Americano for me."

Rachel rewards her with another beaming smile, and Santana makes a mental note to Google the healing properties of smiles when she gets home, because damn if she doesn't feel good when this girl smiles at her. If she could bottle it, Santana's pretty sure that smile could cure all kinds of shit.

"Thank you, Santana," Rachel says, blowing on the hot beverage before taking a small, tentative sip. "Mmm. Delicious! Well, I think I've found a new coffee place to frequent between classes. Mercedes and Tina will love it too, no doubt."

Santana can't help but smile right back. "I'm sure they would, but...I'd like to think of this as _our_ place, you know what I mean? Like a little secret just for the two of us."

Rachel's eyes flick up, oblivious to the fact that she has non-dairy whipped cream on her nose. " _Our place?_ That's...I don't think I've ever had a _place_ with someone before. How romantic!" she exclaims. "You know, this is the best date I've ever been on."

Santana struggles to contain her laughter at the contrast between the seriousness of Rachel's tone and the fact that she still hasn't noticed the whipped topping on her nose. Then the implication hits her: "You mean, best _first_ date, right?"

Rachel frowns slightly, then grabs her napkin with a little _eek_ and wipes furiously at her nose. Santana's stare has given it away. "Yes – embarrassing drink topping moment aside," she says, tossing the napkin aside and then smiling as if nothing had happened. "No, wait, no." She shakes her head. "I meant, best _date._ I haven't had very many first dates...or many dates at all, really, being so committed to my career and all, but...this has honestly been the best date I've ever had, of any kind."

"Wow. I...I don't know what to say." Santana is flustered, yet again. How does Rachel do this to her, so easily? How does she make her feel like her heart's going to burst out of her chest and fly away, like a butterfly taken by a gale? "Other than, get ready for a _lot_ more dates – that is, if you want to...if you're, you know, up for it or whatever."

Santana has learned by now that Rachel can surprise her at the most unexpected times, in the most unexpected ways – but Rachel's next words are nothing like anything she could possibly have expected, even accounting for that tendency. "I knew this was going to be a special day," Rachel says quietly. "Finn told me it would be. I've learned never to doubt what he says."

"Finn?" she asks, slightly alarmed by the somber expression on Rachel's face, the far-away look in her eyes. "Who...who's Finn?"

"He was one of my best friends, growing up. For a time, he was my only friend, really. And then he...he died." A single tear tracks its way down Rachel's beautiful face, and Santana feels her heart cracking in two, cleaved right down the middle. "He died, but he never truly left me. Whenever I'm facing a really big decision, or have to make a very important choice, I know he's with me. I can feel his presence, and he always gives me the right advice."

"Wow. That's, um... _wow._ I'm really sorry, Rachel." Talk of death has always made Santana uncomfortable, despite – or maybe because of – her Catholic upbringing. It's one of those great big existential questions that she's never really gotten her mind around, and she's been lucky that her life hasn't been touched by it very often, except when her _abuelo_ died back when she was six years old. Her _abuela_ had lived with her and her parents ever since. "It sounds like he was really special to you."

"I know I must seem crazy to you right now. I sound crazy to myself sometimes." Rachel reaches for another napkin, dries away her tears, laughing softly at herself. She knows she's risking a lot by talking about this so soon, but it feels right. If Santana's going to know her completely, she has to know about Finn and what he meant to her. And she _wants_ Santana to know her completely, wants that as much as she's ever wanted anything. "But...if Finn were here, he'd like you, I know that. He'd say something like, _You know, that Santana, she's honest and fearless and she's got a great big heart._ He...he was strangely observant in that way."

Santana's warm, dark hand covers Rachel's slightly colder, lighter one. "Rachel, I - I don't want to pry or anything, but...what brought this on?"

"He...the anniversary of his death is coming soon. It's not an easy time for me, as you might imagine. Nor for his mother and stepfather, with whom I'm very close. And it...it feels strange for me to be so happy when such a sad day is so close at hand. Finn would never want me to be sad, even though I always am at this time of year. He was very fond of that quote, I'm sure you've heard it: _Don't cry because it's over -_ "

" _Smile because it happened,_ " Santana finishes for her, reaching out to caress Rachel's cheek with her free hand. "Smile because you knew each other, because you cared for each other."

"Exactly," Rachel says, letting out a sigh. "Thank you, Santana. For understanding. For listening. And for caring."

"Always, _mi estrellita._ Always." Then both of Rachel's small hands are in hers on the table between them, and Santana feels like she never wants to let them go.

" _Mi estrellita?_ " Rachel asks, her head quizzically tilted to one side. Her pronunciation isn't great, but they'll work on it. "More Spanish. I like it. What does it mean?"

"It means 'my little star.'" _It also means that I really, really like you._

"My little star? I like it." Rachel feels Finn approvingly tapping her shoulder, and she nods in acknowledgment. "Stars are kind of my thing."

They sit that way in silence for a while, drinking their coffees and thinking silent thoughts, until a memory hits Santana. "Hey. A friend of mine is in town, and she's invited me to dinner tomorrow night. I...I told her about you, and she said she'd really like to meet you. So would you, like, be free to go?"

"Would this be our second date?" Her eyes sparkle in the afternoon sunlight like perfectly round jewels, like small worlds orbiting around Santana's heart.

Now it's Santana's turn to smile, and she does, so wide that her face feels as though it might just split in two. "If you'd like it to be, then yes. Yes, it would."

"Then I would _love_ to go, Santana."

The talk then turns to smaller things, simpler things, things that make them both smile and laugh and forget the trials and tribulations they've both suffered in their pasts. There's only here and now, only Rachel's future on Broadway, only the million stories of romantic trial and error that Santana's compiled over the course of her matchmaking career, and as they talk the afternoon away in the little coffee shop that they will both consider _their place_ from now on _,_ neither of them notice the young man standing outside the window, watching them.

Jesse hadn't known this place was here - or, more accurately, he hadn't ever really noticed it before. It's very nondescript for a place in this part of the city, not at all the kind of place he'd ever hang out, and certainly not the kind of place he'd ever expected to see Rachel, much less Rachel with a very attractive – but clearly older – woman. He knows it's rude to be standing here, watching them talk and laugh and smile their way through one coffee and then another, knows he should pick up his feet and walk away before she sees him, but he can't make himself look away. _This_ , he realizes, is what he hadn't wanted to face. This is what he'd known all along but had never truly accepted until this very moment: the special light in Rachel's eyes when she looks at the woman across from her, the way she throws her head back and roars so freely with laughter at something the woman says, the manner in which she leans conspiratorially towards her and steals a quick, soft kiss with the promise of something more in it – these are all things he can never, _will_ never have with her, and there's no amount of wishing that will ever change that fact.

Surreptitiously, he takes a few pictures of Rachel and the dark-eyed, dark-skinned beauty with his phone, glad that the two are far too engrossed in each other to notice anything that might be going on outside. Then he remembers where he was actually supposed to be going, and with a shake of his head, pockets the phone. Turning up the collar of his black leather jacket – a gift from Rachel, once upon a time - against the breeze, he hurries down the sidewalk as the sun begins its sidewards slant behind the tall New York City buildings.

* * *

 **Thanks, as always, to all of you out there who have followed and/or favorited this story. I hope you enjoy this update as much as I enjoyed writing it. I own nothing. Feel free to review and / or send me a PM to let me know what you liked, what you loved and what you'd like to see happen in upcoming chapters.**


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